


Symbiotic

by djinnin



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King, IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT (Movies - Muschietti) RPF, IT - Stephen King
Genre: 2017 Pennywise, Action/Adventure, Adult Losers Club (IT), Adventure & Romance, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Ending, Blood and Violence, Character Development, Derry (Stephen King), Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Eldritch, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Protagonist, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Stephen King, Interspecies Romance, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Mentioned Losers Club (IT), Mythology References, Native American Character(s), Occult, Other, Past Sexual Abuse, Pennywise (IT) Lives, Platonic Relationships, Porn With Plot, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Stephen King's IT References, Strong Female Characters, Survival Horror, Trippy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djinnin/pseuds/djinnin
Summary: In the face of it's crumbling destruction, the town of Derry has certainly seen better days with little promise of returning to them ever again. After years away traveling for work, an investigative journalist returns to her childhood home at the strange request of an anonymous source with the promise of intrigue and mystery as the payout. Uncovering the truth of the town she always felt had a second face will also reveal the vein in which evil runs deep, and that nothing in Derry ever stays dead and gone, not really.
Relationships: Pennywise (IT) & Original Female Character(s), Pennywise (IT)/Original Character(s), The Losers Club & Pennywise (IT)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. 1. The Great Breadcrumb Trail of 1986

In the endless expanse of forest stretching for was seemed like an eternity, the sound of branches snapping beneath the weight of a young girl fills the air. It’s the dwindling end of summer now, even though it doesn’t feel like it in the least, but anyone who lived in Derry, Maine knew better than to expect anything higher than a solid eighty-five degrees, and once it passed four o’clock and the overcast set in? The woods would command a season practically all their own. Heavy hiking boots force an imprint on the damp mulch of the forest bed, a small hand snaking around the surface of a withered tree for balance while messy raven waves obscure her vision just enough to stumble forward in a trip, laces caught on the snag of a branch all too eager to impose a shitty start to an otherwise beautiful day. A tiny sound of discomfort rings out, dusting off at the stained front of brand-new denim overalls, and the young girl can only analyze that she would be sure to catch a whoopin’ when her mother saw that she had ruined yet another pair of clothes she didn’t ask for. Yes, young Chris Guzman would most definitely have to endure the age-old scolding and head smack when she got home, and she could hear the hoarse voice of her mother on her third pack of Camel’s clearly in the back of her mind. 

  
  
_ ‘How many times do I have to piss away my money on you Chrissy? You think green grows on trees? Grow up! _ ’ A fatal wheeze, seconds before another long drag off the cancer stick. 

“I’ll wash them when I get home; pops doesn’t wake up until two for work anyhow” Chris rationalized out loud, huffing as dirtied palms rub at big soulful eyes, unbothered by the itch of dirt finding her eyelashes. 

Chris Guzman was the only child of Chino Guzman, and Veronica Ramos, a pair of beatniks whose love started at the dealer’s pit in a rundown casino off the strip of Vegas and ended seven months into their marriage. It had something to do with a newlywed wife who was pregnant and moved onto a reservation as a result of her parent’s less than thrilled their youngest daughter not only failed to ask their opinion on marrying a reservation native but also draining all the family funds to run away into the sunset in the quickest downfall to disowning that New Mexico has ever seen. Despite the in-fighting and emotional vacancy though, Chris’ birth breathed a bit of life back into the couple’s home and warmed it adequately enough to inspire them both to try and raise her with as much love and stability as possible. ‘ _ Life isn’t easy _ ’, that was something the girl always remembered her father telling her while they sat in front of the radio listening to reports of the incoming weather and war bond advertisements, but he always reminded her that despite the feeling of futility that came with it, there was always something to look forward to at the end of everything. This move across the west coast reservation over to the dismal and overbearingly damp town of Derry, Maine was one of those  _ life really sucks moments _ , but Chris would be lying if she said that being able to hike deep enough into the woods where not even the stink of her mother’s cigarette could reach her was a plus already, the smell of pine tree bark covered in morning dew and rain-soaked soil made sure of that. That’s when little eleven-year-old Chris Guzman continued her trek through the forest, allowing the spiraling canopy of trees to draw her in with little regard to the dimming sky or impending nightfall. 

An hour’s time had passed since scuffing her knee on that branch, and her gaze had drawn upwards to the sky to see the vibrant blues turn to a melting pot of orange and red. Time seemed to escape her yet again, but for someone so young she had little fear over the repercussions of being out so late with no indication to those back home of where she might be. No, little Chrissy was more attuned to seeing where the trees would beckon her next, and her stumbling about eventually led her to the Barrens she had heard so much about from the kids in the schoolyard. Murky water rushed down between the jagged rocks and pebbles that littered the riverbank, sloshing over the leather canvas of the girl’s hightop sneakers and weighing down the cuff of her denim overalls. It took some doing to get out of the onslaught of the barren’s fast-paced current, but eventually, the young girl would guide herself to the shore and perch herself on the nearby rock to dry. 

Almost immediately upon looking down did the girl catch her reflection, looking hard at a face that often was the center of discussion since moving to this town. Her face, actually.

Back home in New Mexico there were only a few kids that lived where she had, and they all paid little mind to the various bumps and dips in her skin that came with the condition her parents spoke little of and hoped maybe one day it would simply fade away. Wishful ignorant thinking on their part, but the girl was too young to fully understand the lengths with which her disease had gone, and despite the whispers and jeers of the kids around her or the hesitance to share a pencil or chair with her, Chris made the best of an otherwise lonely existence and took solace in places like hiking up steep canyons or treading into the never-ending length of the river barrens in a quiet, desolate town. Sometimes her parents would try to reassure her that she was still beautiful even if nothing about her appearance ever came up, other times she remembers her grandmother who would sit on the porch with the bird feeder and tell stories of monsters from her childhood who could take one look in her eyes and think twice before snatching her up into the night. A hand reaches up, nails blackened from dirt, touching at the skin in the reflection of the water with curiosity as if the closer she gets to the surface of the river the more she can see what those around her can. In the distance, she hears the drawn-out crowing of an Owl that sounds like its so close it may as well have perched itself on her shoulder, and whatever attention she may have drawn to the glassy visage of herself below has been ripped upwards at the abrasive flap of heavy wings. That’s when she saw it, floating before her in thin-air like a magic trick at the county fair just a few months back, only there was no seven dollar-an-hour magician here to pull the wool over her eyes.

A single drop of blood.    
Hanging before her very eyes with no restraint from gravity. 

“Huh?” Chris mutters inquisitively. There’s hesitation when the opportunity to touch the crimson glob presents itself, fingers curling into the soft flesh of her palm before extending her pointer out to meet it. As expected, upon touching the blood it decorates the curve of her fingertips in a wet splash and dips over the curve of her them so that when she pulls her hand back to examine it, there’s no shock upon realizing it was in fact blood on her hand now. 

But how… how could it be floating? 

Whatever the answer was the youngster was eager to find out, sliding over the surface of the rock she had perched on and sending herself back into the cool embrace of the river. Fortunately, it wouldn’t take too long for her to find her breadcrumb trail, canting her head upwards had revealed there were several more soft droplets of blood dancing between the tree canopy above to guide her way as she followed the course through the creek and up the hill. Most would be deterred by the hum of nature coming to emerge for the night, the caw of ravens and the symphony of crickets descending on the girl as she fought tirelessly through the thick of weeds and slick mud, but Chris would simply soldier on until she had scaled the mountain and her overalls had been coated in a good healthy layer of dirt to show for it. 

“It’s gone,” Chris pants, shaking her head as she looks around to see that her wispy droplets of red had stopped spawning at the entrance of an abandoned cistern. It towered above her, imposing a hopeless aura like it was supposed to provide the gateway to an alternate dimension if she even so much as thought of mustering the courage to step inside past the threshold of the cement frame. Inquisitively she looks over her shoulder, examining the empty woods that once were illuminated by sunlight and now drank up the warm hues of the sunset just beyond the path she had taken to get here, and when she doesn’t see anyone who this… strange bit of blood could belong to, she opts to look forward once more into the dark emptiness of the cistern. The further in she looks the more the inky black of the tunnel begins to grow, threatening to swallow her whole. 

Nobody could possibly be out here all alone. 

“Oh, but didn’t little golie-oldie locks go into the woods on her own? Looking for something to… _ eat _ ? To fill her belly  _ up _ ,  _ up _ ,  _ up _ ?” A voice calls out, broken, but playful, and it breaks the quiet lonesome immersion of the woods and snaps Chris’ attention to the center of the dark ahead of her.

“Uhm-” Chris stops, lip raised and freckled nose wrinkled before her jaw falls slack, settling on the sudden appearance of a piercing golden eye staring back at her from the nothingness. Was that eye there before? Like a dog, she shakes her head hoping to knock the confusion free from her brain only to find that when she reopens her eyes the eye is not only still there, but it seems like it’s drawn that much closer to her, within an arms reach actually. Most would find the speed in which the distance was closed jarring, but there isn’t any fear or surprise to be had from the young girl. The hand that planted itself against the eroded cement of the cistern’s wall shifts, dirtied nails scratching at the surface of it while she examines the appearance of a shifting shadow with silent curiosity morbid enough to beg she respond to its question- even if it was rhetorical. That was rhetorical right?

  
  
“I don’t really know. I always thought that the story was dumb,” Chris responds.

Upon closer inspection, she can see a second eye, the brilliant gold of the right not nearly as much on the left, and there’s a powerful odorous wall of blood and gore. It’s a gross stench she recognizes only because her dad loves to go hunting now that he’s able, living on the east coast, and there’s something unforgettable about the stench of a gutted deer that’s been sitting on a truck bed for four hours. It makes her nose wrinkle again, pinching it tight before stepping to the side so she can stand right before it, canting her head upwards to meet it directly and holding her gaze for what almost feels like forever. How easy it was to be trapped in the headlights, like that same gored deer, if it wasn’t for the fact that they were beginning to pull back like she bothered it by returning its heavy stare, she may have stayed trapped in it forever.

“Your eye looks hurt,” Chris blinks again, feeling the lumps around her own eyes swell from the irritation the dirt caused. 

“I was poked, poked by a  _ naaaaasty _ mean old bear” It responds, the sing-song tone of its words beginning to ebb with an unknown sort of irritation, whether from her or it’s wound is unsure. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have made it mad” Chris responds, only to be stopped mid-sentence with a sharp, twisted snarl. 

“Or- or maybe this isn’t about goldilocks at all, maybe this is the story of little red, with her scuffed knee and her lumpy little eyes too blind to see the big teddy bear is a wolf! Yes, a wolf full of nasty teeth, shiny and white.” 

  
  
The voice that carried from the cistern no longer sounded sweet or child-like, instead, it was replaced by a guttural growl swallowing nails and turpentine. Water sloshes at its feet, heavy enough to drag a ripple and soak the canvas of her sneakers, and there’s a brief glimpse of its outfit when clumsily her phantom voice pries itself backward from her. 

There’s the brightest red pom-pom she’s ever seen, and lace ruffles burying a thick neck which all lead up to a face painted ashen, and lips outlined in blood-red like an animal, which trace a path upwards over those big, brilliant gold eyes. It wasn’t what she was expecting to be lurking around in the woods so close to dusk, making jokes about goldilocks and bears, but the sight of it doesn’t send her running and screaming for the hills more than it does wanting to plunge into the dark and see just how much more of it there was to see.

  
  
She wanted to see the truth of it, and almost like he could smell it on her did the very eagerness perturb it further and further into the darkness. 

“If you were a wolf, wouldn’t you howl? Especially if a bear poked your eye?” Chris asks, turning to dig into her back pocket in search of something. The silence that falls between them both is borderline deafening, but shortly its replaced with a soft little grunt as a clearly refurbished Altoids can is pulled free from the confines of Derry river water-soaked denims. The attention she had given her pocket is pulled back towards the voice in the darkness, only before she can comment on how her grandmother’s cream always made her own body aches go away, the eyes were no longer there. Like a ghost at the drop of a hat its vanished, and she knows because even the heavy breathing from it’s big lungs is no longer invading her ears like it was when it was so close, and there’s a bit of disappointment to be had in that. Fingertips dance over the lid of the can, lips pulled into a tight thin line, and eventually, she decides to squat down and place the ointment on the ledge where the mysterious voice had been. 

“You can have it. For your eye.” 

  
  
Chris once more begins her long hike back up the path she came, eager to beat the mosquitos home while she retraces her steps. It takes about an hour to get back into town by which nightfall has covered all of Derry, and stealing a glance past the big clock tower looming over the library sends a shudder up her spine instinctively. It was ten past eight, and if her mother was in a good enough mood to let the whoopin’ for her denim’s slide, being out two hours past her curfew was, sure enough, going to do the trick. As sneakers hit the lofty front porch and brought out the annoying creak that always gave her away like a police siren, her bloodhound mother was already throwing the screen door open with purpose and bearing down the weight of an elephant with those bright emerald eyes. Her dad always said they looked like something that Audrey Hepburn would wear from that one movie, whenever HE said something to send her into a white-hot rage, but Chris wasn’t her dad. 

Nope, she was just her daughter, and there was no getting out of this one.

“You would think that kids going missing in the dead of night would make you a bit more mindful of your curfew, but here you are on my porch with those big eyes like you don’t know what damn year it is,” Veronica Guzman spits, barely keeping the cigarette hanging out of her mouth resting on her thin lips. Manicured fingers snatch at her forearm, pulling her child forward and straightening out her posture. It doesn’t help she’s mindful of the time, but she also stole a few long looks at her outfit, and that also earns her a hefty smack to the back of her head and a thoroughly annoyed hiss.

“Ma-” 

  
  
“Don’t even. How many times do I have to buy you some damn overalls? How about I let you wear burlap sacks since you want to act like some animal? And don’t even THINK your father is going to side with you this time, he’s got a few choice words for you too. Now  **GET** .” 

No dinner was had that night, and while she did receive hands from her mother, she could always count on good ol’ dad to lessen the blow with his fatal pickup lines and the peace offering of a beer out of the icebox while she snuck her way up to bed. A good long soak in the bath would do some good, and eventually, little Chris Guzman would find her way into her bed under her covers and turn the lamp off with a pull of a string and a resounding ‘click!’ to paint the room the same inky black as the cistern in the woods. 

Even though the lights were off she doesn’t peel her eyes closed yet, fingers tapping at her belly as she looks up at a ceiling with no discernable anything that can be made out in the dark, and she listens to the sounds just beyond the veil of her window which was cracked just a hair. The branches of the tree outside shift in the wind, the crickets chime in time with it, and then there’s the sound of the damn owl hooting alongside it like it can’t help but feel left out from all the symphonic that Derry had to offer so late into the evening. If she hadn’t been so restless she almost would’ve missed the sudden sound of sticks breaking underneath the weight of something heavy, and the slosh of water as something moves closer and closer to her bedside. At that the girl sits up, doing her best to navigate the darkness and use the only single ray of moonlight from her small window as a guide to the edge of her bed as she peers closer and closer, staring long and hard before the abrasive feeling of something suddenly very wet on her cheek has her recoiling back. 

“Mom?” Chris calls out, confused even at her own instinctual need for her when it was obvious she was still downstairs- she could hear her laughing obnoxiously over the sound of that Eddie Murphy special she loves so much, loud enough that it almost sounds like she COULD be right next to her if she closed her eyes and imagined it. 

In a backward crawl, the girl finally makes it back to her bed where her hand reaches out to pull at the string of her lamp with a heavy tug. The first time doesn’t produce any form of light and leaves an empty ‘click’, the second time is the same, but the third tug allows the frantic flicker of artificial light to bathe the room dimly and paint a picture so jarring and out of place it makes the young girl gasp. 

Her bedroom was no more, instead, all she could see before her was the empty black of the tunnel leading into the cistern, the murky water sloshing around her bed in reckless abandon while she shifted onto her knees.

At first, there’s nothing that can be said, how is this real? Was she asleep? She remembered her grandmother telling her mom about how sometimes she would sleep and go somewhere else, but she never had any recollection of it. Her grandmother also had a habit of telling wild stories her parents would do their best to entertain over a few drinks and wave off nonchalantly, always assuring Chris that there was nothing to her stories that was really real outside of the limitations of her imagination. 

But this? This was real. 

The smell of the river sediment stung her nose alongside the wet soil, and the laughter from downstairs was drowned out with the hooting of the owl and the rush of the current beneath the legs of her bed.

This  **HAD** to be real. 

Another sudden splash of cold hits her face, and Chris is quick to swat at it. Fingertips retract before her eyes and zone in on the thick, sticky crimson that paints her hand, and before she’s able to adequately process that its blood staining the pads of her fingers just as they did this morning, her eyes are pulled down to her lap where the Altoids can had rested. It…. it couldn’t be possible, could it? She left this there.

Right on the ledge. 

“Little Red.  _ I found you _ .”

That’s when she saw them. 

Two bright, golden eyes, staring her down from the inky black, a hairs distance away from where she sat upright in her bed.

* * *

  
  


The sound of a glass being placed beside her sloshing its contents up and splashing over the top of her hand is what pulls the journalist awake. Less than graceful, the speed in which her body jolts upright sends her glasses flying over the crown of her head and behind her, barreling onto the seat and sliding across the smooth floor of the train. Wispy fingers pinch at the bridge of her nose, pulling the sleep completely from her body before ducking beneath the table in search of her glasses which has made it a mission to never be found again. It takes some doing, but eventually the little plastic bastard is discovered off in the farthest corner of the booth and just before knocking the top of her head on the bottom of the tabletop, Chris manages to unceremoniously pull them back onto her face and whisper out a few profanities about how trains were never pleasant to ride cross-state on and they never will be. Deep brown eyes scan the table, examining the worn leather notebook, the chewed plastic pen beside it, and the envelope atop that same notepad with uneven edges from where the flap was brutally torn open. After a moment of silent deliberation, it's actually the cup the girl reaches for, downing the contents in one fell swoop and hissing loudly with a pinched expression as the rush of alcohol hits her all at once. 

" _ Fuck _ . Okay- when did I order gin? Oh, man." Chris exhaled, brows furrowed together before it's the envelope that gets her attention next, pushing the flap up and removing the contents of the college-ruled paper inside of it. 

From the Grand Central Terminal it would be a few hours until the train deposited her in New Haven, Connecticut where she would eventually have to take a godforsaken bus and rub elbows with angry mother’s and their gremlin children, and surely endure the one guy in the whole world whose insomnia keeps him and some other poor bastard up well into the night. Hell, she didn’t even like being stuck in her own car for more than an hour, but for work, she learned to commiserate silently to a bottle of corona and make it happen. Before all of this, she had been covering a story about a politician using the Hudson area as the stomping grounds of his information brokering before her boss got a very strange letter written directly to her in a very urgent manner. At the time it was a godsend, Chris had gotten dangerously used to living out of her car and showering in the gym across the city limits of this suit’s home, and she would’ve emailed this guys entire life out herself and called it a day if it meant being able to have even one day in her own apartment with her own shower and her two-day-old leftovers. So when she did finally sit down and it had been a letter requesting she return home to cover the recent destruction of her old childhood town? It was a very anticlimactic backdoor out of her current job.

Still, there was something about it being her, personally requested by an anonymous citizen of this shit town, that ultimately decided for her to make this journey home. 

  
For what feels like the tenth time in a row, Chris reads the letter and commits it’s words to memory. Softly each sentence dancing off the pout of her lips, and her eyes never once draw away from the page as if doing to meant she ran the risk of losing everything the read from her grasp and would have to start all over. The train shakes, rocking her gently to and fro, and with the accuracy of a fine-tuned machine does she finish reciting the last few words on the page with the hiss of the engine finally beginning to dwindle down with the conductor coming alive over the intercom to let it’s passengers know that they would be reaching New Haven station within the next few short moments. 

A tired sigh spills over her lips, shrugging the old bomber jacket over her shoulders and kicking her legs forward as the voice continues to roll over like the sound of rushing river water, and almost immediately she-

“Oh dammit, Ricky the app says that the Bus for Derry just got delayed.” A woman two cabs down cries out, angrily wrestling two toddlers whose lungs couldn’t belt out a louder scream if they had been shot. The husband seems too caught up in his newspaper to care at first, and it’s only until his wife smacks the page damn near in half that he does. 

  
“Go figure your damn mother wants us to visit the weekend the biggest storm in Maine is hitting land.”

  
  
Well,  _ shit _ .


	2. 2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the best place to be reminded of how terrible your home really was, is in the bathroom stall of a bus station.

There were certainly worse things than a delayed bus ride into town, but as of right now it felt like the end of the world with the high-pitched screaming of two ill-mannered children in the transportation depot going on for a solid forty minutes and some change. _Since when did children evolve enough to have iron lungs like that?_ Chris’ thoughts bubbled to the surface as she stole long glances over to the poor young woman responsible for bringing the rowdy toddlers into this world before they’re soon buried by the choice of getting chocolate covered almonds or raisins to fill the empty pit of her gut. A hand plants itself firmly against the top of her stomach, face wrinkled as the Gin she threw back on the train rains hell on her insides, exhaling a laboured breath and an unlady-like burp before snatching the colorful packaging of candied nuts from the shelf along with a red bull and calling it a day with a shake of her head. Why on **EARTH** would a train ride warrant a dose of alcohol poisoning? If her roommate would’ve seen her he might’ve caught a stroke knowing it was probably as generic and vile as rubbing alcohol too, not any bit the good brand name stuff from the flashy bottles you found in your typical big city lounge bars. Fortunately for her, that was neither here nor there; shoving the two items across the imitation marble counter at the cashier with a grunt. 

“Ricky, if you could just please help me for one **FUCKING** second,” The mother pleads, huffing tiredly as the younger boy squirms violently in her arms, beating on the top of her thigh with his half chewed action figure clutched in a vice grip in his tiny, dirty little fist. 

“If you would just listen to me when I said we should’ve hired a damn nanny then you wouldn’t be crying about needing any fucking help would you?” The man spits, sharply turning to catch his oldest by the forearm with a hard tug, nearly ripping his feet off the ground until he’s pulled to his side with whispered threats of getting the belt. 

“Fuck you, Ricky.”

  
  
“Fuck you too, Desiree” 

It’s moments like these that the journalist is thankful for living a very cavalier single lifestyle, and even more thankful she had absolutely zero interest in procreation. Wispy fingers drum on the counter, turning only at the jarring wet cough from beyond the rack of candy bars and colorful array of phone charging cables at the young woman unfortunate enough to have a full-time job at a rundown bus station in dreary New Haven. She was young, maybe fresh out of college, but her appearance was wilted enough that if asked, the question of her age being late to mid thirties would certainly come up. Sunken green eyes were trained down, scanning the two items with unimpressive speed and ducking down briefly to get a small plastic bag, stopping only when a knock against the surface of the counter broke her concentration. Before she could utter a word, the blond slides a box of cough drops to join her ‘breakfast of champions’, gesturing with a point of her finger. “Those are for you, you can ring them up too” ( _because lord knows you sound like you might keel over at any second here._ )

  
  
The cashier blinks in confusion before nodding, pulling it under the red light of the scanner and drawing her attention back to the journalist. 

“You look really familiar” The cashier coughs, forcing her mouth into her shoulder to shield the other from her cold. “You don’t, sorry to say” Chris clears her throat, blowing a stray blond wave out of view from her face. It was a bit of an awkward exchange, especially since it seemed like it took all of an eternity for her to finalize her purchase; _she’s probably a new-hire, aren’t all of these machines automated now_? Chris clears her throat.

Not like she could say anything though, now the cashier is springing to life with newfound energy, almost enough to knock the wind out of herself and put a brief look of confusion on the other’s face. If Chris was surprised by anything she may have even yelled a profanity or two, but there’s no race of her heart or shock to make her react beyond a shift of her eyes and a quirk of her brow. 

“Chris? Chris Guzman! I did a paper on you for my Feminism class. If it wasn’t for your card info I would’ve thought you were just trying to gyp people into thinking you were ... _well_ , who you _are_ -” A fit of coughs stopped her, and Chris stole a scratch or two at the back of her neck. 

“Well I’m definitely flattered you wrote a paper about me, I just haven’t decided if that's supposed to make me feel old or weirded out how recognizable I am” Chris joked, dryly, and she can tell she may have accidentally insulted the other based on the suddenly defeated look she’s donning. Hands go up as a signal of a white flag, opting to bow out of the conversation before more of her foot-in-mouth syndrome landed her with a spiteful cashier blowing a good sneeze all over her food. Twenty years of living, some college, and a few of professional workforce wouldn’t cure her of her inability to socialize without offending someone with her innate gift of sarcasm. A very brief struggle of payment with her platinum amex card ( _the silver metal ones that looked amazing but were as basic as any person with a good credit score standing could be_ ) and she was taking her bag of goodies and parking herself on the bench farthest from the struggling couple to wait for the bus to arrive. 

Listlessly her eyes began to wander out, peering into the bustle of the New Haven bus station and watching the bodies of others move across the floor and into their terminals. How long had it been since she had traveled out like this, far from where her city apartment was now and to where her childhood home was then? It had been long enough that she can barely remembered, and clearly by the yawn and a stray pointer finger pushing up the rim of her glasses to rub at the corner of her eye meant that it was time for that obnoxiously large Red Bull and a recap from the letter which showed up in her mail less than a week ago. With a sniff of her nose she shifted and turned to grab the envelope that was tucked safely away in her satchel bag, wispy fingers parting the envelope and pulling the letter out to unfold on her lap while the other hand blindly reached for the energy drink beside her, maneuvering the metal tab with expert speed and finesse which can only be confirmed with the crack of the aluminum parting at the pressure applied from her thumb, and the satisfying hiss of carbonation escaping the can as she did so. Raising the drink to her lips, the first swig hits her jaw with all the joy in the world of that acidity making her recoil at the feeling of it, before mellowing out into that sweet taste she’s come to know and love over the years. Excellent. Now the letter would have her full, and undivided attention. 

  
  


_Chris,_

_When this letter reaches you I imagine you will read it and debate on whether or not it is worth you time. The truth is that regardless of what you may be thinking, you should know that nothing you ever work on or dive into will be of greater importance than this job I am asking you to come and do. You used to live here once in the town of Derry, and you’ve been gone a very long time, enough that a lot of it has changed… and for the worst. There isn’t a political war going on here, and there’s no undercover crime ring for you to dig up, but there is something dying here in town and I need your help to find it. I think there’s something to be said about leaving to become a paragon of truth and coming back to save something you probably hate, but that's part of the human experience isn’t it? I hope you’ll find it in yourself to come, especially since I know you got the payment already for the job._

_Derry needs the Watchman back on the tower ledge._

That last part made her scoff a bit, turning the paper front to back as if it was going to supply her with a sender’s address or any type of hint to who the secret writer was; to no avail like the last five times she had done it, she folds the letter up and lets out an air of finalization. The longer her eyes stared up at the massive clock overhead the entrance of the terminal the more the woman was sure this entire trip was beginning to look like some big elaborate prank by one of her co-workers to get her out to see her family. It was a few months prior at the start of the winter season when the potluck at the office happened for all the poor bastards who loved their jobs more than their families to attend a thanksgiving dinner- _Chris never considered herself a poor bastard for such a circumstance, not to mention she knew better than to celebrate a holiday dedicated to the enslavement of many long lost ancestors_ \- and talk shit about their lives and respective jobs. Chris had been about two servings of someone’s fried turkey and stuffing in when the newest addition to the office asked about why she was there every single year instead of with her family, and it was enough to make her forfeit her next bite in favor of a retort as dry as the stuffing on her plate.

‘ _Are you the cops?_ ’ 

The truth is that the only bit of family she had left was living on her own in New Mexico, and while she didn’t harbor any sort of resentment towards her parents moving far from it to find greener pastures and fatter wallets, she wasn’t going to dedicate money towards traveling out every year to see them when the only family she did want to see was usually sick in bed or helping around the reservation. 

So was this a ploy from some jackass in her office to get her out and about with common folk again? The thought sobered her quicker than the energy drink and candy-coated nuts ever could. That irked her, enough to actually force her into a stand so that she could start sorting her things back into her bag so she could turn right back around to the closest airport and go home; this entire affair was eager to put her in a mood, but it would have to try harder to do so. 

Ducking down to tie her boots before heading out, her gaze wanders over to a pair of feet that were remarkably close to her. Dirty brown L.L. bean boots forced their way into her view, equally old and stained denims cuffed over the top, and as her head wandered up the length of the person whose footsteps brought no warning of his presence before her, the face that she settles on brings a curious wrinkle of her long nose into a soft, open-mouthed look of genuine recognition. The man in question is remarkably tall with soft cherub features that are unaffected by age. The curls of his dirty blond hair frame his face, and perhaps the most immediate feature of him that can draw the eye to him is the mole just below his thin lips. To anyone this man would’ve been a very beautiful stranger with personal space issues, but to Chris, this man was Mateo Langston, the only person in Maine, Derry who she would’ve called a friend, and who had been missing for almost fifteen years. 

“Mateo? _Mateo Langston_?” A finger shoves the glasses over the bridge of her nose, pausing to take a breath. “No. What? No way. No fucking way.” Her babbling brings a bit of a crooked smile to his face, nodding his head as she rises to her full height and gives him a faint crooked smile of her own. 

“Fifteen years, is this where you’ve been hiding for fifteen years? Pretty awful digs. Wow…It’s really good to see you Mateo. I don’t even know what the hell to say right now.” 

“Well, you’re still terrible at greeting people. So it looks like fifteen years passed and you still have to social skills of a robot with a USB drive downloaded personality” The man snorts, but goes in for a brief hug which is reciprocated without hesitation. A decade and some change had passed on and nothing could take away the small, simple pleasure of seeing a good friend. Chris remembered when he first went missing, it was just before the end of all the kidnappings in Derry, and his parents feared the worst of their only son being among the growing body count. He was smoking a blunt behind the stage just as he always had a good hop and skip from the decaying Paul Bunyan statue off Center street last she had seen him, and by the time she had gotten home there were news reports of someone finding only his L.L. Bean boots to prove he ever existed, scattered in a heap like he had turned to dust and flew away in the wind. Chris could recall all the theories, all of them gruesome murders people were always eager to spread and talk about, meanwhile it was entirely possible he got picked up by his dealers too. Chris was the only one who didn’t buy into the sex fiend murder man nonsense, but she also hadn’t really known any better either. It wasn’t in her to ramble on about things she knew nothing about, and relied on her not knowing until she could get her hands on the truth. 

“So, I heard you actually became a journalist. Put all of your debate club skills to bully your way into a publishing office?” Mateo smirks, and cracks a smile when he gets a side glance out of the woman. 

“Yeah, I’m a hit at parties where everyone hates the politically passionate. So? You think I’m not going to ask what happened?” Chris said.

  
  
“What do you mean?” Mateo asked.

There’s a small sound that filters out past her lips, something caught between faint frustration and honest bewilderment. Her thumb and pointer finger pinch her nose in a soft sniff, perching her chin atop her knuckles while she looked up at the man. She would settle for a distrusting perk of her brow, and then she’d continue with her subtle interrogation. 

“So normally you go on a fifteen-year long hike into nowhere? That's pretty damn impressive. Not to mention you really had us all there for a minute, especially your parents, you really threw them for a loop” 

Now normally there were no exceptions to the rule of being ambushed by Chris Guzman or her impeccable energy she exerts to get people to talk easily. A lot of it was people’s observation that she didn’t have any fear of repercussions, or that small anxious tick a lot of people had where they were always worried about what people would say or think diving into asking questions most people grew ornery answering. Mateo Langston knew that well and good, but fortunately for him he also had a trump card against her that had been groomed for moments like that could only come about from years of friendship and intimate secrets.

This was the trump card all best friends had: The power of dismissal. 

“Shut up, Chrissy” Mateo scoffed. 

“Eat it, Teo”

  
  
They both shared a grin before just like expected, that trump card’s super power used all its infinite power to melt away the inquiries he didn’t want to answer. 

“So judging by your pleasant attitude that the other twenty some people here share, in the same booth vicinity, you’re waiting on that new charter for Derry right?” Mateo inquired, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his two sizes too big plaid jacket. Once he gets a nod of affirmation, he nods himself, picking up his bags from the old wooden bench. “Well I got news, the bus broke down, so it looks like you and your company of whatever the hell are going to be here for a good long while. Unfortunately for you anyways, thankfully for me I was heading out.” 

Chris swallows a bit at that, though she’s unsure why exactly. She merely rolls her shoulders in a shrug before taking another swig of the Red Bull she’s neglected, pointing her gaze down to those boots of his she’s always known him to have a fondness for. The longer she traps herself there, the more she swears the top of his boots are speckled with something dry and coppery, and her senses even trick herself into believing they smelled like iron. Like Blood. The intrusive thought gets pushed to the back of her mind and her head canted upwards once more, only Mateo is no longer there, already halfway out of the aisle of the terminal. Her hand goes up in a wave, and almost as if he had a sixth sense did he raise one of his own mere seconds before turning around to give her one final look. 

There was something in it that held her captive, much like his old boots, like it was a glance that was shared between them for moments that spanned on hours. He looked tired, life in his pale Gray eyes borderline white as he mouthed a goodbye to her and disappeared into the crowd of people disembarking from the hall of the train terminal and sweeping him into nothingness. Like he was never there at all. 

_‘Don’t stay too long’_ , Mateo muttered to her when they had found themselves in the Derry Public Library, hiding between the historical biographies and the restroom. She’d steal a big chew from him and they’d laugh at all the pictures of the presidents before they were kicked out for being a disturbance, but in this particular memory he was lost, solemn, like something possessed him with an innate sadness. ‘ _I’ve lived here all my life,’_ Mateo sighs _, ‘and the only thing this place is good at is draining you dry, like a vampire or something. Like it_ **_WANTS_ ** _to kill you.’_

Somewhere between finding an alternate station to reroute her to shuffling into the bathroom led Chris down memory lane, dragged her by the ear practically. She was paying the price for combining cheap Gin and sugar-amped drinks and softening it’s blow with some damn almonds, hands gripping the toilet seat like a tired truck driver in need of their eyes to stay open for just one mile longer with the threat of crashing looming over their shoulder. The first heave comes almost immediately when gravity transfers from her being upright to being hunched over, but she doesn’t start throwing up until her eyes pinch closed at the familiar smell of cigarette smoke wafting into her nostrils. Nails scrape at the porcelain, wheezing over and over until the last drop of vomit has finally passed over her tongue. Planting a foot to steady herself up into a stand, the journalist finally spins around to shakily plant a hand against the wall of plastic before her, finding purchase against the surface as her brain processes the pang of emptiness in her stomach while her eyes train themselves to the graffiti on the walls and bathroom door before her. 

  
  


_Looking for a good time? Look for Janet Brandshaw_

**_(207)446-0015_ **

_Kenzie Morris & Patrick Hocksetter **4** eva! _

_Beverly Marsh Looks like one and Smells like it 2! **XOXO**_

Manicured hands curl into a soft fist as gravity slowly starts to come back to equilibrium, inhaling the putrid smell of someone smoking in the next stall over almost knocked it right back down; Chris was thankful for how cramped the stalls of Derry High were, otherwise keeling over would’ve been her fate. With a labored cough the young woman finally pushes the bathroom door open with force, shaking her head as she staggers over to the sink in an attempt to fix her unkempt appearance after a good long session of blowing chunks. If she hadn’t made an oath to attend the prom dance with Mateo so he could land himself on third base with his senior crush, she could’ve been home watching HBO with her hand tucked into a fistful of potato chips while some unfortunate teenage babysitter type blond on the television got a knife to the spine for the tenth time in a row. It was probably that very reason her mother seemed so eager to get her dolled up for this event, she could remember the twenty minute long tangent she went on about how she couldn’t stand that movie Tourist Trap because watching Chris recite the lines from the film was almost as terrifying as the film itself. _Agree to Disagree_ , Chris thought with a groan, staring at the vibrant green makeup her mother plastered over her face. Anything was better than this sick form of social torture. 

Most of the kids there were seniors, a handful of juniors, and then the small bit of freshman and sophomore who were lucky enough to come with an invitation from an upperclassmen. To be here meant you were someone, living the peak of your youth by dancing in a cramped gymnasium that smelled like a mix of sweat, polished floor wax, and feet. People talked day after day until the arrival of Prom had finally come close to the end of the year, but for Chris it was another day on the calendar and that didn’t warrant any interest in her. _You’re not even interested in anything on the regular, like a real automatonic wackjob_ , Mateo laughed adjusting the corsage on her wrist before dragging her into his beat up pick up truck in the most unromantic way possible, like a man dragging his dog into the veterinarian's office. _Just pretend to be interested enough tonight to help me get my dick sucked, please?_

“Jennifer, wherever you are, please be sucking my friend off so I can go home” Chris muttered, turning the rusted knob of the sink until the water came sputtering out in harsh sprays before making one concentrated stream of water. The smell of chlorine in the water stung her nose and she can feel her grandmother rolling in her bed at the notion she’d been drinking from the tap like a lunatic, but risking her foundation and lipgloss she goes in for the kill, sucking down the city water to quench her thirst in hopes it’ll bring the smell of bile away with it. Hands pat down the glittering emerald sequins of her dress after, sucking on her teeth as the bow tied off to the side sits on her wide hips awkwardly and lights a small flame of irritation in her gut. The strappy sandals on her feet were another source of misery, binding her toes and forcing blisters on her skin like ballet shoes with little blades sewn into the sides. It takes a long moment of deliberation, but eventually the need for freedom is too strong and the girl drops down into a squat to unbuckle her heels, ignoring the feeling of cold air brushing over the front of her panties. Why would anyone willingly wear a dress? It was like asking to get manhandled, and god forbid a breeze hit you on the ass. Relief came in the form of feet planting themselves firmly on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, fingers curled into the straps triumphantly. Silently she had decided it was time to return to the shitshow, knowing that Mateo would throw a fit if she wasn’t there to assure Jennifer that he always had a bulge during gym from his sweatpants to give him the edge he desperately needed. 

Stepping into the hallway, the young woman let the sound of her feet slapping across the linoleum force out the drowned the noise of the gymnasium across the way, hooking her hands around the door handle before the blur of something dancing past her peripheral had pulled her attention away. She blinked away the shadow she presumed to see and turned her head sharply after the soft pitter-patter of feet scurrying in hall across from her. Soon her sleepy daze of confusion was replaced with the heat of her entire body when the brief visage of a completely naked woman briskly departed back into the bathroom she had just left. She blinked twice, even smeared her eyeshadow around and irritated her sense of sight just to make sure what she had seen was really real. 

The door was open. Chris had closed it. 

In an effort to satisfy the morbid curiosity that had pry itself to the surface, the girl turns back towards the direction of the ghostly woman with careful steps. Toes perched upwards in a tip toe, her arm had come to hook the length of her bow in her arm after growing tired of hearing it ruffle against her upturned sequins. Her body had stood behind the door that had been left ajar, rolling pouty lips into a thin line as her gaze was drawn at the doorknob. A number of things could’ve been behind the door; all of these things would’ve been perfectly fine rationalized conclusions. _A girl who made a poor choice in picking a nude-colored dress_ , she started with, shutting her eyes as she continued. _Some drunk prom queen who stumbled into the bathroom in nothing more than her birthday suit, looking for her friend to bum a dress and smoke off of all in one_ , that thought seemed all too likely considering it was Marsha Perry this year for that nomination, and like her alcoholic mother the apple didn’t fall far from the tree at all. _Or maybe_ , and this last stray thought was the motivator in drawing her body from around the safety of the door and into the doorway; neon red light bathed her body in abstract horror. _Maybe there is a woman in here whose naked, who wandered into a highschool prom dance, and has completely lost her mind…where is the red light coming from? What the fuck_? 

There was a very raw, jarring feeling that stirred in her abdomen at the sight before her, coiled tight in the pit of her stomach like snakes sliding one over the other. There had indeed been a woman, naked as the day she was born, and her body had felt…wrong to look at. Long raven hair had hung loosely over her back which was thin, the skin clung tight to her spine as the bumps poked and formed small hills in her flesh. It took a moment, but when Chris had finally gotten close enough it was clear that the crouching woman had been eating something, the wet smack of lips and horrendous crunching of something hard between the womans teeth growing louder and louder the longer she stared at the back of her head which moved in sudden, jerking motions.

One breath.

Chris has drawn a single breath and it was enough to pull the entire moment to a halt, the horrific sight drawing to an immediate pause. 

The gnashing teeth had drawn still, and though this generally was the time that most people would run screaming, especially as the body contorted and moved it’s crooked bones to face the girl, Chris was only drawn forward by the need to see her face. All the possibilities that could’ve been, bathing this creature in an endless expanse of red, so much so that the blood soaking the thin curled toes of the stranger was lost on the young woman until the stench of it became stronger than the stink of nicotine which still clung to the air. The mangled limb that was the source of the crunching fell to the floor, fingers twitching and flushed red to indicate how fresh the poor unfortunate soul had been, and when Chris watched the curve of the woman’s jaw come to view and look unto her, her body had dropped to a near arctic chill. Her eyes- yellow, bright, and vast, and what should’ve been a button nose contorted and dipped into a beak covered in blood, the feathers on her face ripping past the surface of her skin. Everything about what she had seen was unnatural in ways that would break the mind, and yet all she could think about was the endless ways this could or could not have been possible. 

An owl…she looked liked a fucking owl.

As if smelling the stink of her confusion off the surface of her skin, the beak of the harpy had drawn open as far as physically possible, pulling at the skin of her face though no noise would come out. 

**LITTLE RED**.

The shrill cry of a bird rips the journalist back to reality. Her head pulls upwards, watching as the flap of its wings scatters violently across the ceiling, hitting all the walls the small bathroom had. Throwing the door open, the woman manages to duck out just before the feathery assassin can swoop down and take a chunk out of her scalp, staggering backward before throwing her hands atop her knees in a haggard attempt to catch her breath. “What the hell? Christ nobody noticed a fucking bird in the bathroom?” Chris exhales, planting a hand atop her heaving breast as she stared long and hard at the closed door. Going home was more than just annoying, it was starting to pull her childhood to the surface, and at that she couldn’t decide if it had been worth the trouble any more. It wasn’t fear that brought her to hesitate, in fact she couldn't tell what it was that made her think over and over again about whether leaving was the right choice, but at the prospect of going back to her dying little town and uncovering the truth behind all the vicious murders, disappearances, and menagerie of unfortunate people and circumstances, there was a small flame still lit that urged she pushed forward. 

“No point in turning around now. Especially since I took the entire month off, I’ll just look like a little scared tool” Chris mutters, shaking her head with a sigh and a roll of her eyes until they closed shut. 

After she had much deliberation the journalist took it upon herself to find real food for the journey out. The delay had turned into total cancellation, but fortunately for her while she waited in line at the coffee shop to get her overpriced coffee and breakfast sandwich, her connections fell into place. Traveling across America has its perks, and finding an alternate route into Derry proved to be easy for her. The next couple of hours involved a long stretch of road on a very cramped bus, but it was a hurtle she had managed to triumph over and that was all that had mattered to her. The sky had gone from brilliant blues to muted grays with streaks of black, and eventually the storm that rested out somewhere in the Atlantic had finally crept onto the shores of the east coast and covered the entire state of Maine in rainfall. Through all the traffic, hardship, and half stolen naps on the bus ride into Derry, five hours had passed and the early morning had come to. 

“I was really hoping that you’d be here” Chris sighed, holding her phone against her ear with the help of her shoulder while she threw her duffle back against the top of her back. 

“I’m sorry sweetie, your Nani is sick again so I drove up to the reservation to be with her this winter. To my credit, you also never call… _or visit_ ” Her father, Chino Guzman, muttered back on the other end of the call. 

Her head canted upwards letting out a long defeated noise that had her other travel companions around her veering as far from her person as possible. 

“Just give me a call, Chrissy. You know I love you, so did mom”

  
  
( _Not this again._ )

As the line died with the press of a little red button, the woman took a good long look at the welcome sign. The paint had chipped off and been repainted many times over the years, but the same blue and off-white letters and idyllic lighthouse backdrop remained even almost thirty some years later:

  
  
_Derry Welcomes You_.

There was something irritatingly false about those three words in reference to this town, anyone who had lived in Derry knew that, but it wasn’t going to stop her from pushing forward. Everything about the town seemed the same but somehow… more dreadful than she remembered, especially when the majority of the buildings seemed to take on decay and crumble to nothing in her immediate line of view. The shops remained, the streets and all it’s array of potholes and misuse hadn’t moved an inch, and nothing about Derry seemed to have aged with any sort of grace whatsoever. It was a real indicator that some things will die into a heap of dust before even considering making a change, especially in the direction for the better. 

It was a good thirty minutes of walking from the bus stop before the woman had found her way back to the Derry Town House where she spent countless summers spending stolen days with her grandmother talking about the school year and what she was doing up on the reservation in New Mexico. 

Memories she kept close, feeling them slip between the spaces of her finger when she walked in and heard no idle chatter or white noise. Just quiet. 

As she walked to the front desk, her hand found the top of the bell and let out a resounding ‘ding!’ to summon the building manager. 

“Here we go,” Chris muttered, checking her watch. 

Eventually someone would come to greet her with a fake smile before recognizing her. Then they would offer her a drink- _which she sternly denied-_ and allowed them to guide her up the stairs to the top of the second floor where her room had been. It took no time to unpack, but settling down felt like it was a practice she hadn’t done in a very long time. 

She would just simply have to get used to the fact she was back in Derry, hunting for more invisible truths.


	3. 3. Interview with a Mad-Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against the odds and the weather reports, Chris got her interview.

_Two days_. Two days the horrendous weather kept everyone locked inside their homes. It was two days spent eating soggy pizza and sitting around twiddling thumbs for entertainment and whatever momentary entertainment that could pique Chris’ interest- which after making at least twenty paper airplanes and drafting her will? Wasn't saying very much- could offer until the mania of it all pushed her to the very brink.

“Wonder if I open my window a hair the entire Stormfront will come barreling down in here?” Chris asks aloud. Her face scrunched up inquisitively as she pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the window to watch the storm paint the town of Derry in white, slanted clouds, yawning behind the safety of her palm.

“I forgot how much it rained here. The fact this place isn’t buried under twenty miles of ocean is a mystery.”

The morning had come as quickly as the night had left with the storm sweeping away all plans to sight-see the city she once called home right into the storm drains. Thunder had cracked waves of illuminating light across the gray sky in flashes, and though a particular nearby strike had roused her from sleep, Chris had no qualms spending an aimless thirty minutes watching the storm consume Derry whole as its eye centered right over the bleak town. Fingers splayed across the cold glass window, eventually drumming against it with quick little taps in rapid succession before letting out a soft huff of exasperation. Well, the rain lost its charm most definitely, now all she could do was rest on her knees in boredom knowing that the weather would not let her go anywhere for at least a few hours. _Rain_ … Chris **hated** the rain, and maybe not with an unbridled burning passion, but a good strong annoyance would do the feeling justice. Her and rain just don’t mix, the same way oil and water didn’t, and that was a fact as old as time itself. The first taste of Derry storm she ever got was the second year of having moved there, she had just started high school and the day before midterms the entire building flooded and everyone had to wade through about a solid six inches of water. Her mother had just bought her a pair of mustard yellow corduroy, the type John Lennon would have worn, and she was so proud dressing her up in those gaudy pants after stealing them for half price at the store that when she came back with the ankles drenched in rainwater and mud, she couldn’t see anything but the color red. Chris was sure that time her mother would surely suffer the strokes she constantly spoke into existence that day with how prominent the vein on her forehead was, and she wasn’t the one whose feet curled and cracked from walking two miles with boots full to the brim with the sloshing runoff.

Nope, the rain was the stuff of legendary inconvenience, and nobody could tell her otherwise.

It also impeded her job and made the start of her rabbit hole dive into this town a lot harder than it had to be. Hands found their way against the purchase of the sheets and pushed her body up, letting out an explosive sigh and staring ahead vacantly. I wonder if I’m using the rain as an excuse, she thought, only to come to a full stand in the triumph of it. _Rain or not, I will get this over with. Yeah, that's why we got umbrellas, but I don’t have rain boots. Go figure_. Opting to figure it out later, the journalist would discard her over-sized and over-used band shirts, boxer shorts, and finish with her socks in favor of climbing into the shower. It couldn’t be hot like she wanted, her medication always reacted poorly when her body flushed with heat, and when she got out she’d spend the better half of an hour rifling through her luggage, getting her fashion affairs in order so she could march into the town and get a start on this job of mystery and intrigue. Once her jeans, turtle neck, aviator coat, and clark boots were on she was off, stealing her recorder and notepad on the way down the stairs.

The Derry Town House was one of the few good things in this town Chris could recall having fonder memories of. The building itself was much older now, the paint chipped after years of enduring a lack of upkeep, and the wallpaper yellowed and maintained a pungent old, wet paper smell that really gave its age away above all else. Still, even beyond all that she could think back to it’s heyday when she was just entering Derry High and her grandmother would come down from New Mexico to visit and stay in the same room; she preferred it because she said it was the room farthest from the negative energies, and her mom pretended to act like she was senile but Chris always understood and made little fuss when it took a few days extra to secure it. Her hand extends out to the staircase railing as she made her descent, knocking her head back to brush the platinum dyed tresses from her face and over her shoulder and entering the foyer. Deep brown eyes fall over the front desk, drumming her fingertips over the edge until they found purchase over the polished golden bell she found tempting to touch as the seconds passed on.

**Ding**!  
 **Ding**!  
 _Ding_!

_“Do you have to touch it so much? You already rang it before Chris.” Veronica Guzman sighed, pulling her bucket bag close to her hip. Despite this protest, the girl’s hands would find their way to the top of the bell again, flashing a smug smile to herself before her mother snapped a rather nasty hiss in her direction and opted to leave her with her mother-in-law, finding her way to the open bar two rooms away from the check-in. Why be pleasant when you could get shit-faced?_ Chris thought _, peering beyond the veil of the bar before hearing her grandmother’s voice clear as day._

 _“You ring that bell and it reminds me of my first Pow-Wow” Ela Guzman chuckled. Her face pinched happily, leathery wrinkles of sun-kissed skin adorned with freckles gifted by the sun just as they had done her granddaughter, and hair white as snow with a softness that would put any model to shame. Chris_ was drawn _to her, magnetically, and the matriarch held a fondness for her granddaughter not even her parents could replicate. Ela and Chris were best friends, her grandmother would say the same soul splintered in two._

_“Pow-Wow? Did you make that word up Gram?” Chris asked, innocently enough, but always transparently dry. She had her mother’s charm._

_Ela chuckled, “Why would I_ _do a thing like that? Am I in the business of lying to you?”_

 _“I hope not. Ma seems to think so_ ,” _Chris said flatly._

_A thick arm finds the developing curve of the young woman’s waist, drawing her in as they waited on the bench for someone to carry their luggage up, and a soft sigh escapes the elder woman._

_“My sweet girl, what you experience when you fall asleep is not a lie, what you feel is not a sign of your being broken. Your soul shines with something much brighter than what your mother can see, and… what happened that day was not your fault-”_

“Did you need some assistance?”

Reality pulls the veil from her eyes in the clerk's form, the son of the original caretakers of the Derry Town House property. She could tell by the beauty mark just below his chin, his dad sported one similar to his. Shrugging her jacket square over her shoulders, she leans against the edge of the desk, pushing her glasses over the bridge of her hooked nose.

“It’s been a while, Derry’s small but people move around, I was wondering if you had a yellow pages or something? I’m looking for someone for an interview,” Chris broke into a monologue, removing her notepad from the back of her jeans pocket and flipping the top flap up with her thumb. “You guys got WiFi, but your address’ hasn’t been updated in-”

“Maybe if you gave me a name instead I could be of better help?” The clerk sighed, furrowing his brows at the journalist. Chris sucks her teeth. _Okay,_ wise ass.

“Well, since you seem pretty into everyone's business here-” a scoff from across the desk, “I’m looking for one Mike Hanlon. He’s the historian and librarian of Derry last I heard.”

And like magic, the man’s uppity attitude falters. _Interesting_.

“I’m not familiar with the name. Last I heard the family has been gone a long time. Their farm is covered in a bunch’a weeds” The clerk dips down, pulling out a giant phone book. _So you_ _had a yellow_ pages _? What a_ _tool_ , Chris thought. She grabs it, damn near snatches it from him, and immediately starts flipping through the book to find the H’s, pointer finger guiding her way among rows of people long forgotten by the city, and the state of Maine itself. It takes some doing, and while the Clerk goes on and on about how Derry’s been deteriorating and his hours seem endless here at this place, she finally finds what she’s looking for, only the address listed back is the same farm that's probably covered in thirty years worth of weeds. She slammed the book shut unceremoniously, unbothered by the man jumping in surprise of the suddenness of it.

“Thanks, see you around” Chris shoves the book towards him, not waiting for a response or wave to send her off. Still… she does stop dead in her tracks and give one last look to that same old bell and leans over far enough to give it one final,

 **DING**!

Departing from the Town House with an umbrella in hand, boots pass the threshold of the doorframe and into the rushing cold waters of the city street. The rain roared in her ears and filled the sky the same dreadful gray it had been for the past few days, and after some fighting, she makes a dry canopy overhead for herself and starts off into the street. It would be nice to get a refresher on the address she copied down on her notepad, but the mist of the storm is peppering the fabric of her jacket, and losing all her notes would be a superb way to start this job off in the opposite direction of right. If the farm is his last known address, then I’ll just have to go to his last known job first, she thought. The method that came into play when her job was concerned was the only thing that Chris had never taken likely. In fact, most of her colleagues would say often her job was so important to her it drove her mad. She had always pursued truth with a voracious appetite, and every step of the journey towards it only made that hunger grow. As she carried herself through the city, the only soul present on the street aside from the straggle of a bystander who sought cover or the bored shopkeeper checking the front of their business’ for signs of flooding, she had wondered what it was about Derry that always seemed so surreal to her. It never seemed like the place that you would grow up and live to tell stories about the good ol’ days where nostalgia lived— dad did, but dad would give anything to run away from Mescalero—or even dream of returning to pass on and remain in the town for all their afterlife to come.

Nevermind people often died here _prematurely_ ; Derry was a grave as much as its denizens acted like gravediggers.

So what was it about Derry the mystified her so much, that even years after she had left she would think back to this place? A town that didn’t really take to her because of her prior physical deformity, or looked to her father with shame, who was a redskin intending to bring his hippy crap to the dismal town. All Derry offered was evil. _Evil incarnate_. From its surface level to the roots, the town of Derry in the state of Maine was a bad seed that let weeds run rampant and no one ever bat an eyelash towards it. There wasn’t a corrupt mayor spearheading drug operations on the down low, nor were there gangs outside of racist angry teenagers whose parents are spitting images of their rotten little apples, it was… just a town with a lot of blood-caked over it. It’ll burn to the ground and the dirt would be cursed. She remembered her grandmother saying so.

And that's why Chris loved it—everything in this world was defined by its one truth, and Chris would find it.

Her thoughts and determination, however, would eventually distract her thoroughly enough into the body of another passing on the sidewalk at the same time as her. The person had shoulder checked her a decent amount, just enough to send the umbrella out of her hand and skirting the space between them where it would roll back and forth in the street, coming to a halt as the metal edges hooked on the storm drain by the ledge. Brown eyes zone in on the culprit walking past, only stealing a brief glance before immediately recognizing the face of a girl whose torment in school hasn’t aged her a day, and looking at the woman she’s become.

Sarah Lynn Perry, valedictorian from hell, and once upon a time Chris and Mateo would lovingly refer to her as Patrick Hocksetter’s cock so—

“Did’ja need to take up all the ‘walk?” Sarah scoffs, turning as she examines her exposed purse with disgust before turning to return Chris’s focused gaze. There’s an exchange of silence, and Sarah soon breaks it with a condescending laugh. “Oh my gawd, no friggin’ way! Missus Guslan?”

“Guzman,” Chris replies, dropping to a squat to grab her umbrella from the onslaught of the rain. There’s a pause as her hand grabs the handle which is submerged beneath the drain, shocked to feel it was so warm. Definitely weird.

“My oh my did you grow outta all that ugly. I can’t believe it! You look more like your daddy now that you don’t got all them lil’ lumps by yuh eyes.” Sarah giggles, staring venom into the other’s boy in a straight line stare while her arms folded tight against her pastel pink raincoat, vibrant copper curls resting against the curl of her shoulders and framing her sharp chin just right. Mateo swore to Chris once she was a product of the Devil himself, and the way she ran Derry High? Chris wouldn’t have needed a pentagram necklace or Latin class to have believed him. Derry had a way of producing a particular blend of Bully.

“Thanks, glad I had the pleasure of bumping into you. Never left Derry huh?” Chris asked, shaking the umbrella a few several times while she looked up in a squint to assess the rainfall.

“I did, came back when I settled down with my beau. Didn’t feel right raisin’ my kids in ‘Bama when my whole family’s here. What about you? I-” Sarah pauses, feigning a fake pout with big, watery, sea foam blue eyes. “I forgot, mama Guzman died of that Cancer bad now didn’ she? I’m so sorry ta’ hear”

The word alone makes the journalist feel a pulse in her eyebrow, twitching until she’s able to suffocate it with a flat stare.

“Try not to catch a cold,” Chris said.

“Try not ta catch a stroke” Sara Lynn retorted, flashing her canines in a predatory smile and a wiggle of her fingertips. “Ta Ta! Welcome home, Chrissy.” _The Devil_ _indeed_ she thought as she departed down the street once more.

The rest of her walk had gone without disturbance. Main Street had been a memory unforgotten to her, and the longer she traveled down the road the more she would remember the streets and all of their names. The phonebook offered Mike Hanlon’s most current address that had intersected on Main and Palmer Lane, and that venture ended up being a dead-end when she arrived only to discover a for-sale sign stabbed in the front lawn. Picket board or not, the journalist treaded past the gate and peered through the windows to get a confirmation that the place had been barren, picked clean of all furnishings and trinkets that would ever show another human being had once lived in solitude there. _House_ isn’t sold, she thought, _So here’s to hoping Hanlon isn’t Derry free yet_.

At some point, she wondered if the rain would ever stop, and by the fifth clap of thunder rolling overhead while the rush of water lapped at the leathers of her boots, she had realized that it would be wishful thinking.

It took all of an hour of walking until she had finally breached the city proper. The hem of her jeans had gotten damp from the wind pushing the rain forward, but through a miracle, the storm had softened long enough for her to make her journey towards the library a tad easier. Her gaze had been drawn to the building, remembering skipping class plenty times to come here with Mateo and avoid the pungent smell of nicotine, and it’s as if it’s old age saddens some part of her to the core. As she passed by the buildings, it was hard to ignore how much of the land had gotten as dull as the skies above it, grass was matte and gray with obvious signs of decay; it may have been a lumber town, but one thing Chris could always look back to was how green Derry looked when she was younger. The storefronts were abandoned, if they weren’t they were broken into with barely the dust to cover the empty walls and the people? Well… the place may as well gutted them too because the people were just as sullen and vacant as the town had become.

Something rolled over and died big time.

Chris took caution when traveling up the steps of the library, noting the cracked cement and the green of algae from the constant rain. All it would take is one excited step and she’d go tumbling onto her ass and then if she did find Mike Hanlon, holed up in the library with his nose in a book, she wouldn’t be able to stop him from laughing at her to ask for an interview looking like a wet cat. Reaching the top felt like forever, and when she had gone forth to push the door open with a loud, rusted—

_EEEEEEE_!

She was met with a wall of silence that was… ironically enough, deafening. This wasn’t good.

“I’d rather not uber out to a farm,” Chris snorts, leaving her umbrella outside the door to lean on the wall. “But if I do? I’m making this guy pay for it.” As the door shuts behind her and her boots squeak over aged tile, the journalist shrugs her jacket over her shoulders to protect from the frigid air conditioning and wanders aimlessly in the lobby. It hadn’t changed a bit in the long years she’s been absent from home, and even if there was barely anyone between the four walls of the library to fill it with the hum it used to have, it brought a brief moment of peace to her all the same. Dipping past the isles she completely avoided the task at hand in favor of familiarizing herself with the aisles that towered with bookshelves, fingertips dancing over the spines of books she’s read time and time again, humoring herself when she finds smaller publications of even her own work in the politics section. Curious, she plucks it out, palm caressing the cover as she loses herself in the memory of writing her first publication, not too long after making a breakthrough with a corrupt politician in upstate New York. The soft sound of paper brushing against itself fills the surrounding air when she finds the title page with her picture, years and years ago; this was the start of her career, but more notably it was the same year her mother passed.

The phantom smell of nicotine is distracting enough that the sound of footsteps approaching hardly moves her. It isn’t until the person in question is right beside her she takes full notice, quickly putting the book back on the shelf. It was in poor taste for someone to catch you ogling your own work.

“Is there something I could help you with?” The man asks the smile on his face is pleasant, but there’s no mistaking how heavy it is. He looked like he had endured all three of the world war’s in one sitting.

“If you’re a people finder, sure. I’m looking for the Librarian, Mike Hanlon? I was hoping—”

“Hoping to clear your late fees? Put in the good word?”

There’s a heavy long pause at that. Awkward.

“... So you’re Mike Hanlon?” Chris asked, perking a thick brow.

With a soft chuckle, he nods his head, calloused hands rubbing at the back of his neck in attempts to ward off the physical manifestation of his embarrassment. Dark brown eyes meet hers, mirrored, and he offers her another heavy smile. “I would be him, yes. I don’t get many visitors, maybe I should be worried?” Mike asked, unsure if he was making another joke and vocalizing his paranoia. The Journalist hung her head downward and scratched her scalp, shaking her head before extending a hand out with a ghost of a smile on her own lips, wrinkling her freckled face in his direction. “I’m Chris Guzman, I’m a journalist. I was hoping I could talk to you actually about Derry’s recent…” She pauses.

“Derry falling to pieces?” Mike tilts his head coyly.

“Derry falling to pieces,” Chris confirms.

“I have to admit, I'm a fairly specific source for something as broad as that” The librarian chuckles, turning to walk and allowing the woman to follow, both of them traveling between the spaces of the isles and bathing in what little sunlight the high-rise windows allowed in. He was, she had to admit it all seemed targeted considering that Mike Hanlon had also belonged to that group of kids from her childhood who was a year or two her senior and that those same kids came back home and stirred a lot of trouble up. Her dad liked to gossip, and her e-mail spam folder was full of the extent of said gossip.

“I _could_ lie,” Chris starts.

“I’d rather you didn’t, that wouldn’t really put this interview off to a good start,” Mike adds.

“When I passed your home and saw the for-sale sign it became much more important I got your parting word on Derry. A lot of the older generation guys aren’t alive to give me better info, and any of the ones who are probably choking on their blended up peas and carrots” Chris snorts, adjusting her glasses and stopping just short of the desk at the center of the first floor. The expression on the man’s face twists into confusion, processing the admission of sneaking around his former property, but it becomes clear the longer he thinks about her words he’s not far off from his prediction of her and her wants.

Something inside of him made him want to hesitate, she could read it all across his face, but it’s her aloofness that drives his agreement home.

“Okay, I tell you what. I was getting ready to uh, finalize my move here by the end of the week. I have to be ready to close up here shortly, but I’d be more than happy to discuss the history of the town or, well, whatever else you’d like over a cup of coffee” Mike nods, shoving a hand in his jeans pocket with a warm smile. The journalist nods, pursing her lips before chuckling dryly, asking boldly if he was trying to cram a date alongside the interview in tandem. That was when the second awkward silence would transpire that evening, and Chris would leave the library with his phone number and her obligational burdens a few pounds lighter. A few hours would pass on by, and when six had finally come and gone and the town’s resident mad-man had locked the Library up bolt and key, they would be reunited once again in town, sharing words and stories of their childhood home over the warmth of caffeine. For a very brief moment in time, the storm didn’t seem to rage on as loudly as it had, and the town didn’t feel as suffocating as mere hours before; it had stopped all the invisible demons of Derry just outside the cafe door.

“So you were the girl in the class before us. I remember now, I have to say, being able to still have all that animosity with Sarah Lynn? Impressive. She barely remembers how to check her balance at the Library” Mike chuckles, hissing contently with a stolen swig from his coffee mug. The journalist snorts, pushing her glasses up as she starts the recorder with a faint ‘ _click_ ,’ placing it at the center of the aged wooden table.

“Seems like many people in this town hold grudges, even the land itself seems to hate Derry with its track record for kidnappings and deaths,” Chris says, rubbing her chin and reclining in her chair before pushing herself forward once again, folding her fingers between the empty spaces of her hands. “Everyone says it's just the nature of the modern-day American, but there’s a few who believe it’s cursed, from its roots to the ground up.”

“There is evil in every human heart, which may remain latent, perhaps, through the whole of life; but circumstances may rouse it to activity,” Mike said.

“Nathaniel Hawthorne” Chris remarks.

“You know your literature” Mike chuckles, nodding to himself before a solemn look overtakes his formerly pleasant disposition. His eyes stay anchored into his reflection which ripples as his hands wrap around the mug, shutting his eyes and losing himself in his thoughts. Chris canted her head downwards, a skeptical look forming on her features. Her mouth opens to speak, but before she can do so her companion starts anew.

“I’ve spent all my life here, wondering, waiting for any part of this place to just… give me a reason to stay. Maybe if you asked me a year or two ago I could think of one or two,” more than most, the journalist catches herself thinking” But even to its days of conception, Derry has only done one thing, and that's taken from everything and everyone. It has a rich history, the development of its people is there, but at the base, at that place where—”

“Place?” Chris interjects.

“...” Silence.

The interview, mostly, had gone over well. Mike had done well to break down the Derry township making something of these lands, from the decimated Black spot incident, and illustrating a clear path along the winding road of the disappearances; to leave a single detail of every bit of written and verbal history would be a discredit to all this town had been and was today. It wasn’t until this moment, caught like a mouse in a trap begging feverishly for freedom when the eyes of the cat bore down on it, that it had taken a nosedive. Chris adjusted her posture, but her gaze remained all the same.

“What, you mean the house on 29 and Neibolt?” She reaffirmed.

Silence, somehow much louder than the last. His face twisted a bit as if he couldn’t stand the name of the street itself. Eventually, the moment passes, and his hands extend outwards, swallowing hard and forcing a fake smile to the surface.

paranoia, anxiety, and **fear**.

“It once went by the name of the Well House. Our friend, Ben, he told us that that was where the settlers began their journey to making Derry what it was, and where it all ended. It’s… it’s a pile of dust now. Collapsed from a sinkhole.” The librarian drinks the last of his coffee, ghosting the tip of his finger over the rib of the cup and staring at the remnants of grounds at the bottom of the white ceramic. Eventually, his eyes find the journalists, and he paints to her the importance of his next following words.

“No use chasing ghosts” Mike sighs. “Derry has a sordid history of… lots of bad, but bad is also what you make it, Chris. I think a lot of people forget that and stay trapped in the bad forever.” His words make sense, they’re even sort of assuring if you dwell on them long enough to pick up on the saccharine sweet of potential happy endings. The only problem was that it was bullshit, from his sudden physical ticks to the way his tone dropped to a parent gaslighting their child into a direction more suited to their needs, Chris refused to believe anything he said from this point forward not being fueled by secondary feelings. Her hand's fold, her gaze doesn’t relent, and she lets out a soft breath.

“I heard a few months back you and a few of the other original gang-”

“ **Losers**.” Mike barked, garnering the attention of a couple behind him and the barista across the room at the bar. Chris remains unphased, even when his fist balls up at the edge of the table. “What you heard is what you heard, and it was a few months back in the past. This was nice but, I think this interview is over now, Chris.” His finger travels forward, presses the pause on the recorder, and clears the room towards the door. The woman makes no move to stop him, she remains and finishes her coffee and leaves her dishes in an orderly fashion in the dish bin close to the door before packing her things and venturing out herself. Her lead gave her everything she needed and more, and while he might have thought he could sternly guide her away from the next stepping stone in her path, he only showed her where it was beneath the dirt instead.

**Neibolt**.

“Chris.”

She couldn’t have been more than a few paces down before turning to look over her shoulder, fighting her umbrella until it sprang to life to offer her the same canopy from the elements as it did prior. At the edge of the sidewalk stood the Librarian, looking at what felt like miles beyond where she stood. Like he foresaw every route she could have gone in her pursuit for the truth and painted a grim picture of all the endings that would come to be.

“Go home. There are better places to spend your days than here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So first off: we got 100 hits! 100 people took the time to read my fic. Second, I'm so sorry for the delay, but this chapter proved to be the world's biggest hurtle ever for me. Between work and honestly stressing over hoping I can develop and showcase my love for this project, the words wanted to do everything but click, but we out here and we made it ya'll. I have a lot in store for these two upcoming chapters, and the fifth one is where the big man himself is back in town. All and any reviews are welcome and adored, and I'll see you all on the flip side. Stay frosty!


	4. 4. The color Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something about Chris that just didn't feel right— to anyone, or herself.

“ _wrrrrrr_ — ▅▅ **click!** ” “ _Do you believe in the Bogeyman, Chris? The thing that hides under your bed?_ _Derry had one once. I believe that beyond a shadow of a doubt._ ” Pause. Rewind. _“wrrrrrr_ — ▅▅ **click!** ” “ _Your grandmother is Apache, so remember the stories of omens and things like Big Owl_?” “ _I think giving something we don’t want to confront bigger claws and teeth than it has is a good_ coping mechanism _, but if I can’t see it if something isn’t standing in front of me to give me a face, or a physical form? I—_ ” Static. “ _Choosing not to believe in the devil doesn’t save you from him. Belief is our only weapon against the Unknown. It used that against me once, I recall a memory when I told them that we believed we could beat the evil handed down to us by our forefathers, it said it’s belief was stronger, more raw, more...powerful_ ” Pause. “ _Belief of what Mike?_ ” Pause. Silence. “ _It said they believed in_ IT _._ ”

_Click_! Stop.

The recorder goes back and forth like a pendulum between recordings for ten minutes before it finally comes to a close. As she sits at her desk illuminated by lamplight, Chris replays both the words of the librarian on her recorder as well as the expressions on his face during the interview. Mike Hanlon was a _good man_ , he was fair and knowledgeable, provided guidance for any and all who asked or needed it, and he had endured the possessive hold of Derry’s misfortunes more than any other soul could possibly fathom. It was the reason that she was able to see how much it plagued him when she looked into his eyes, eyes that were drawn almost naturally to everywhere else but a direct gaze. _How many times did you feel scared to wake up in the morning_ ? Chris thought, looking at the recorder before drawing her gaze down towards the books he had lent her on the town’s history, though many of the pages were torn out and highlighted into near-total destruction. _How long did it take for this place to climb under your skin and inject fear into you, Hanlon_? She brings the recorder close now, soulful dark brown eyes drawing to a lazy gaze as she presses ‘play’. 

“Fear is a funny thing, for centuries the entire town of Derry drank it the way we used to drink water from the hose during the summer. It’s an all-consuming whirlwind of chemical that hits your brain and makes you think everything about you is small and weak amounting to one moment of insane vulnerability. Fear runs Derry, and Mike Hanlon showed me that even as he’s moving on to better things that same fear is still here, free to drink out of the spigot for everyone to be a slave to.” Chris pauses, looking out her window and into the white of the storm. 

“Once upon a time when we were kids we made up stories about voices in the sink or clowns in the locker room, and while I still think both of those things come from the tap of that fear spewing hose, I think it shows that a town whose only ever known fear inspires those stories to carry on inside us. There’s no money laundering mayor controlling the curfew to make money drops at a dock, there isn’t even a single politic horror about this town that they everyday American would sit down and maybe, _rationally_ ,” She inhales, sighs, and nods to herself. “Consider **ACTUALLY** evil. Nah… Derry, Maine’s notoriety exists because it has since it’s conception, and it starts at the Neibolt house. Sinkhole or not, I think I know where to make my next visit. Neibolt was always more than just a house to all of us who grew up here, it was a landmark of living, breathing fear. Eyes to watch us, and teeth to anticipate us being dumb enough to think we could be **BRAVE** enough to slip inside.” Pause. _Click_! 

There’s a sudden sharp pain that forms behind her eyes, drawing her hand immediately up to rub circles against the center of her eyelids, pushing her glasses up over the tops of her knuckles. A hand blindly reaches around, twisting her face into something of mild discomfort before reopening her eyes and allowing her glasses to fall before finally coming across the plastic, neon orange prescription bottle that offered a pleasant escape from her pain. It had been almost a decade that the orange bottle had remained loyally at her side, always juggled around the contents of her luggage and satchels, and always full for moments like these where it felt like someone had set her eyes on fire with a grand ol’ _fuck you_ to boot. Skillfully she navigates the lid off the top, takes the prescribed amount of two for the evening, and takes them dry with little fuss. The rain continues to roar outside, and as she gets up to retrieve herself a nice cold Twisted Tea from the mini-fridge to set her body closer towards relaxation and sleep, there’s a moment where she catches her reflection in the mirror. 

‘Y _ou look more like your daddy now that you don’t got all them lil’ lumps by yuh eyes_ ’ Sarah Lynn Perry’s voice echoed off the walls in Chris’ head. 

Once upon a time, the journalist could remember not looking like a typical normal child. As someone from the west coast, she was already drastically different, from the clothes she wore which were always a combination of hiking boots and some sort of thick fabric that was befitting a burlap sack, to the lingo she used that always threw the kids of Derry for a loop any and every time she used it. The thing that stood out the most for her though was always the beaded skin that sat around the tops and corner of her eyes like she had been stung mercilessly by mosquitoes with a specific landing zone on her body, and when the older kids would spit and accuse her of having the clap or an outbreak of Herpes, some of the younger more perturbed ones would ask what it was so they could be sure to do everything possible not to catch the disease that Lumpy-eyed girl in 9th grade had. 

‘ _Urbach-Wiethe Disease’ Chris would say flatly, exchanging a tired glance with her friend Mateo Langston, who was much more preoccupied always trying to smoke his pathetically wrapped blunt than anything else. ‘It’s a genetic disorder, not Herpes’ she’d reaffirm_ . _Mateo would nod eagerly, taking a hard drag before wheezing violently_ . The kids would never believe that though. The worst of them had been Henry Bowers and his gang of greasy underlings, always eager to inflict pain, never able to match the appetite that their leader had for it. The memory of his face alone brings her back the longer she stares, fingers dancing over her sharp cheekbones. They travel up, brushing raven tresses out of view until the aged mark of a scar barely visible reminds her of the first month she had moved to Derry, during their Valentine's Day get together in the park. ‘ _That’s the new girl, some fucking hippy from the west coast. I heard her dad’s one of those fucking redskin types_ ’ Henry Bower’s voice sounded distant, forcing the journalist’s face into a wince before smirking to herself in the mirror. “I remember that day actually, shit Mateo’s body stunk like _—_

_“Weeds and dirt, that's exactly what you smell like” Chris coughed, side-eyeing the sophomore and pulling her green and yellow turtleneck higher up her body, hoping the fabric could shield her from the wafting odor of the marijuana stinking up her immediate area._ The memory was so vivid, for a second her mirror felt more like a looking-glass than anything else. 

_“Don’t be such a tool Chrissy-Wissy, your grandmother had a whole doobie on her lap last week when you guys moved in,” Mateo snorted, going cross-eyed as he leaned in close to shotgun the smoke in her face directly. The hiss that follows her cough is immediate just as the fist that unfurls against his stomach, delighting in the connection that just about winds the boy and has his lanky body curling over her; he was always impressive in height, partially why he was called lamp-post in school by the entire community._

_“She’s old she gets a freebie, you’re just a tool” Chris retorted._

_Chris had known Mateo for a month and despite his insistence that her inability to emote past a sneer or a smirk had him convinced she was the victim of a lobotomy, they had gotten along swimmingly. His friends were few and far in between, the few he had were his steady income when it came to passing bud and cash, and a few of those friends weren’t far off, watching the sophomore hoist the new girl up into the air and dunking her into a bush with ease._

_The Bower’s boy had been perched on the front of Belch Huggin’s 1981 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, staring down the passing groups of kids flooding into the public park to set up for the holiday’s annual fair. Every year the English teacher would host this fair and turn all the kids of Derry in a bunch of faeries (_ Henry was convinced he was one of the few straight, hot-blooded boys left in this shit-hole town _) throwing pink, red, and white streamers across every plant in the outdoor public area. What wasn’t covered in streams was coated with a healthy layer of confetti and cardboard hearts, and the various booths for activities and food would soon crowd the space until it felt like one ugly mess of holiday cheer. Normally his hunger for violence often fell on the Loser’s Club but there wasn’t a single one of them in sight today; The Barrens seemed to provide more than an escape from the school bully. Normally his hunger would’ve been sated if he had his usual marks about, but they weren’t, and that left the good drug dealer and his hippie friend fresh into Derry with no trauma attached. Belch had been sitting in his car blasting Megadeth at the highest volume possible while he stuffed his face with a greasy burger and Vic Criss would test his ire by stealing a fist full of his fries. Patrick had tagged along for this endeavor as well, though not the other two boys first choice to add to their gang of misfit’s daily outings, Henry had enjoyed Hocksetter’s need for violence was equal to his own. The tallest of the boys had been playing with his lighter, leaned on the hood of the car while he watched the two lower-classmen with a predatory gaze. Henry caught it, processed it, and knew what to do next._

_“Saddle the fuck up assholes,” Henry called out, smacking the hood of the Trans Am with a crooked grin. Belch threw his hands up in protest, sticking out of the window._

_“Do you faggots need an invitation? Come the fuck on!” Henry shouted again, feeling his upper lip twitch when the two others rolled their eyes at the command._

_Mateo had been perched on the ledge of a bench closest to the parking lot now, staring forlornly at the roach in his hands before nearly having to eat it as the principal of the school passed by with a box of festival supplies. Chris had been unfolding her swiss army knife meticulously, folding all the blades back in just so she could reopen them. She had been turning to head to the snack booth which had just finished setting up when she walked into the chest of Patrick Hocksetter, recognizing him by the stench of sweat and gasoline. His hand was on her before she could process he was an active barrier in her way, looking up into his eyes and unable to escape the intensity of his stare—_ like quicksand _._

_“Oooh, Dontcha know how to say ‘excuse me’?_ Rude _” Patrick cooed, eyes falling lazily on the young girl’s chest, more than pleased with her development unlike some of the other girls at this school._

_“You’re lucky I didn’t stab you, I had the corkscrew out” Chris replied, earning a mortified look from her friend slinking up behind her. Mateo was quick to grab her other shoulder and yanked her from Hocksetter’s hold, but unable to break the lingering gaze he had on her._

_“She—” Mateo started, stopping just as fast when Henry held up a pointer finger._

_“Now Langston, I don’t think it’s very fuckin’ polite of you to go introducin’ all of your little friends to your business, otherwise there ain’t shit left for us. And hey… I don’t usually judge on a good pair of tits, but your friend’s got herpes huh?” Henry chuckled._

_Belch and Vic had joined just in time to hear the jack-off commentary from Henry, and have a good ol’ laugh. Patrick didn’t, but he was too busy undressing the girl with his unblinking eyes._

_“I don’t think you know what Herpes is,” Chris starts, and ignoring the hard jerk from her friend's hand as he tried to silence her. Henry Bowers snickers at her insult, smiling as he lumbers on over, calloused hands raised high above her head while he wiggles his fingers dramatically. “You would know huh? Is that what you redskins do? Fuck around and get Herpes?” Belch snickers behind his hand, Vic follows, and Patrick cracks his first sick smile of the day. The worry on Mateo’s face has hit an all-time high, and Chris?_

_Chris only blinks before swiping the air between what little space had been between Henry and Her. Suddenly he didn’t seem to be smiling anymore._

_“Crazy bitch!” Henry snarled, assessing the damage of his muscle tank shirt. Chris only advanced, pushing the bully back a step or so. “If you’re going to make threats don’t be so scared,” Chris commented flatly, hearing the unnerved commentary of the two other bullies behind Bowers. She was just waving a knife out in the open like that? With everyone around? Even Henry was more methodical than that, more careful! She wasn’t fucking_ SCARED?

_No._ She truly wasn’t _._

_In the blink of an eye, her concentration is thrown when Patrick goes to grab the hand holding her Swiss army knife, only to be cut short when Mateo had gone to cold clock him in the limited space he has. For all intents and purposes, his hit would’ve landed if Patrick hadn’t been aware of the other boy’s intention to protect the girl. In a flash Hocksetter had returned his attempted by striking the dealer’s cheek with his open palm in a heavy-handed smack which knocked him back, earning the young girls ire. There was another action based on reaction now, and Chris had returned the act of aggression by swiping upwards towards the taller upperclassman with a boldness that came to no consequence to her as she watched the corkscrew connect across the Heather gray long-sleeve the boy wore. Patrick hissed aloud and fell back against the car, hands floating above his right nipple as he watched a thin angry streak of red bleed out past the ripped fabric. Chris had cut Patrick Hocksetter without so much as batting an eyelash, and Mateo Langston, as well as the rest of the Bowers gang, were still trying to process it long after the moment had passed._

_“_ WHAT IN THE GOOD GOD DAMN IS GOING ON HERE? _” A voice carried well across the park. As if in unison all six of the children turned toward the culprit, only to find it had been the principal in question demanding answers. Before the rest of the kids could react properly, the man had thrown his hands up and atop his balding head, eyes growing as big as saucers._

_“_ MY CAR! _” The principal cried out._

 _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick’s gaze traveled south, off down the bloody path that the corkscrew had made into his shirt and onto the once pristine candied paint of what was now the principal’s car;_ Too bad _for that huge scratch Chris made on her way up._ Too bad _that Patrick was so consumed with the deteriorated, broken, wrong aspects of the young girl in front of him that he plotted on seeing more of it. He cracked a sinister smile, and all Chris could do was stare up at him boldly. If it hadn’t been for Mateo grabbing hold of the girl’s forearm and making a run for it there was no telling what either the leader of the school board would’ve done, or Patrick Hocksetter. His breath was ragged, and Chris remembers how afraid he must’ve been that day— because she couldn’t process why he would be the entire block they ran. The voices behind her seemed scattered to the wind while her friend pulled her along, fading into one low hum before the sound of the Trans Am engine kicked off and the rowdy gang had fled the scene of the crime. The sound of their footsteps hitting the asphalt is all that filled her ears now, and the steady thrum of her heartbeat keeping in time with the boy whose only goal was to carry them both as far away from that place as possible._

_“What’s the matter with you, Chris? Huh? You don’t have any self-preservation?_ Fuck! _” Mateo wheezed, legs shaking as they carried them well past the park and into the safety of the baseball field. His boney hands closed around the top of his knees, canting his head down as he fought a losing battle of catching his breath after smoking an entire blunt. Chris leaned against the batting cage doing the same, eyes rolled shut as her chest had fallen and risen. The sharp stab of breathlessness had stung deep, but regardless of the fact she had persevered beyond its hold over her lungs and let out a finalized wheeze. As she reopened her eyes she could see Mateo up and move, shaking his head while he stared out into the sun beginning its descent from the sky and overtop the vast expanse of greenery, painting the sky in deep oranges and reds. It wasn’t until now that she had realized how handsome Mateo had been for a boy his age, and while a part of her felt her observations were merely a result of her body reacting to him safeguarding her from a suspension and a potential ass-kicking, it was nevertheless an observation long overdue. His jaw had been sharp, framed by his golden waves which had been unkempt and wild, and while he was tall and lanky with little muscle to speak for, what little he had made him resemble something of a somber angel in an Italian Renaissance painting. All that aside, perhaps the most striking part of Mateo had been his eyes which were on fire with deep browns and flecks of hazel, and when the sunset found itself falling over the top of Derry with foreboding silence, those eyes consumed every last drop of orange and red and pulled it deep inside of himself._

_Chris moved closer to her companion and tilted her head to look over to him, cautiously, like the heaviness of his lingering gaze into the woods beyond had been a telling sign of something much more somber beneath all of his beauty._

_“I didn’t ask you to stick your neck out for me,” Chris stared ahead in the same direction as Mateo, rolling her lips into a thin line to pull the dryness off them. “I told you I don’t do things people like alot of the time.”_

_  
_ _  
_ _“Shut the fuck up Chrissy” Mateo whispered, turning his gaze down onto her. His hand grabbed her bicep for the second time that day but unlike the first which had been meant to secure her, this time it was to anchor her in place. She studied his face and read all the creases in his face as an expression of irritation melted into something of concern, something she simply couldn’t understand for the life of her. “Is all that shit true? You mean it when you say you aren’t scared? You haven’t— y-you haven’t like…. I don’t know! You haven’t fucking jumped at a sound, or been scared after watching a scary movie? None of that shit?” Mateo asks, exasperated, baffled by his friend who would so easily hurt someone in the same vein as get herself hurt, or potentially_ worse _._

_“No” Chris responded, flatly, meeting his worrisome gaze with her own which was devoid of anything he would’ve been looking for to tell him she was nothing but a big fat liar._

_“I mean doesn’t that shit bother you?” Mateo barks, letting go of her arm in favor of throwing his hands up high above his head, letting them fall to his sides against his worn denim cut-offs. “Like don’t your parents like, I don’t— Augh! Chris don’t you feel_ anything _?”_

_Chris had furrowed her brows now, the longer his tantrum went on the more she felt the familiar pressure of agitation build at the base of her spine and paint her face red. What kind of stupid question was that? Of course, she felt things like any normal person did even if it wasn’t with the same matched intensity, sometimes things didn’t interest her the same way it would anyone else, but she wasn’t some robot off the silver screen of the Aladdin. It didn’t matter where she went evidently, whether on the Mescalero reservation or the expanse of green in Derry, Chris was always going to be painted in the same light: An unfeeling disasterpiece. Thick eyebrows lock in the same frustrated expression, but she’s unable to meet the heat of Mateo’s gaze. She feels him look down at her in his impressive height, but he doesn’t give her time to respond to him proper. Mateo wasn’t going to even allow an answer to his question, he only wanted to make things clear._

_“If that’s how it’s gonna be you need to realize that Henry and his dick polisher’s aren’t the type of goons you wanna have beef with” Mateo said. His hand wrapped around the back of his sweaty neck, shaking his head. “There’s something wrong with Bowers, just like there’s something wrong with this town— a-and they won’t come looking for you” another exasperated noise. His hand on her bicep dropped now._

_“The people here will eat you alive and put your fucking bones in the garden and say the magnolias are prettier ‘cause of it” Mateo sighed._

_As the sun finally fell behind the cascade of trees, the beautiful mix of colors meshed into a solid red that painted the entire world around them. For a moment they lingered there in silence and drank up the calm knowing that it would be a very rare gift that had been given to them. There had been a certain pang of homesickness that had hit Chris for a moment, the vibrant colors reminded her of how the clay used to be in the canyons, and how absurdly mad her mother would be when she would track the red dust across the house even if the floors had been waxed pine wood. It was also the color of her grandmother’s favorite shawl which sat over her lap as she listened to a few of the 80s rock bands that Chris was fondest of still today. For all intents and purposes Red has been a color that reminded Chris of a lot of happier times in her life, but what she couldn’t understand was why the world around her had been bathed in it all of a sudden._

_Then like the sky, suddenly Mateo had no longer been there beside her in the bleachers of the baseball stadium. She could still hear his breathing though, clear as day, and the familiar lock of adrenaline coursing through her body had come crashing down all at once. In the backdrop the loud jingle of the metal fence has snapped her head towards the edge of the bleachers, all the way to the stairs that lead out into the dugout, and she had seen him— the ghastly decayed visage of Patrick Hocksetter leaning out and making direct eye contact with the young girl, a Cheshire’s smile forced into a grotesque hold as muscle and sinnew barely hung together to make the eerie expression a reality. He simply_ stood _there waiting for the moment she would see him, watching her with the same predatory gaze that he had when they met in the park, but he did not dare move. If he had, she was sure that all of his bleached white bones and rotting meat would’ve slid off onto the floor in a horrendous wet ‘_ splat! _’. It felt like an eternity that the two were caught in one another’s gaze, the tall lanky corpse twitching violently and his eyes widening until the muscle contorted to match the intensity of his stare. Chris blinked, once, twice, and three times— each time she did pieces of her memory of Valentine’s Day in 1988 faded away into the backdrop and dissolved into the familiar location that was her rented room at the Derry Town House, only her body failed to release her from its sleep. When did I fall asleep?_ Chris thought, loud enough that it felt as if her mouth was moving despite how nothing of her body shuddered even an inch. 

Yet still Patrick remained, peering out past the door frame, staring from the darkness of her bathroom with the door ajar, rattling violently as the bright opalescent whites of his eyes threatened to pop out of his head. The smell of carrion had flooded her nose, and for a moment Chris would’ve sworn that the haunting form of Patrick Hocksetter was as real as she had been, as real as anything else that was flesh and bone in this world.

“Ch-c- _chrisssssssssssss_ ” Patrick hissed, the pop of a torn esophagus breaking his words into teeny tiny pieces. A throaty laugh erupts from his mouth, jaw falling slack as a string of cartilage barely keeps his lower jaw together. “C-c-coming back a-a-and not saying _hiiiiiiiiiiii_ ? **RUDE**!” A horrific, animalistic growl clawed its way from the depths of the sleep paralysis demons chest, and what was once a stationary ghost suddenly became jarringly active as he forced a path towards the woman fast asleep at her vanity, weak and helpless to her body’s demands to stay still. 

_Get the hell up_ , Chris thought, rattling her head as her body remained slack and the visage of the boy came closer, forcing his body in jerky thrown movements to reach her. The stink of death was stronger now, enveloping her senses and presenting her with the reality that her vulnerability was ever higher, believing in the deepest recesses of her mind and heart that Patrick Hocksetter might just be back from whatever ring of hell he crept out of to deliver the ass-whooping he never got to give her all those years ago. 

_Get the_ **FUCK** _up!_

Then, as quickly as the world of poetic reds and literary death had come, they were gone the next. Light began to bathe every corner of her vision, and the longer she had been consumed by this light the more she swore she smelt rain water and heard a babbling creek. The world of horror had been left behind, lifted from her like a child would after discovering there wasn’t a monster there to snatch them right out of bed… or maybe eager to see what might’ve lurked beyond the safety of a white linen sheet. The heat of sunlight shined atop her eyelids, heat that shouldn’t have existed knowing it had been well past eight o’clock when she got back from her interview with Mike Hanlon. It’s that same certainty of her known location that forces her to crack open her eyes to see where her mind had taken her now, but the light was too bright, cracking her eyelids open a hair brought excruciating pain and forced her eyes shut once again. Why couldn’t she see past those three shifting lights? Why wasn’t she able to just open her fucking eyes like a normal person? Why did she have to _be_ like this? Her breath caught in her throat, the heavy labored breaths of the corpse no longer rang in her ears, but something much more familiar. 

‘ _Sweet girl, where you go when you fall asleep… it isn’t a lie. It’s as real as anything else._ ’

“Gram _—”_ Chris called out.

The journalist rises after what feels like an eternity. Her head pounded something terrible, instinctively weaving her fingers beneath a mess of raven hair to massage at her scalp while she slowly processes she really has snapped back to reality. _When was the last time I had sleep paralysis? Incredible_ , Chris thought, annoyed at the idea that one single shit-hole town on the map in the United States of America had so much of a dizzying effect on her that it was dredging up years of unwanted junk to the surface. Dark brown eyes stare deep into her reflection once again, registering the appearance of soft freckles littered across her nose from the sun, the hooked slope of her nose which lead to the pout of her full lips, and the way her cheekbones formed sharp features to make up what she saw everyday as her face. No lumps, no skin pockets, not a single blemish in sight. 

_My face_ , Chris thought again, feeling the two words echo off the walls as she continued to stare listlessly into her reflection like she wasn’t seeing the full picture _— like she couldn’t recognize the person staring back at her._ The disconnect lingers for minutes which eventually drift to hours, and when her eyes feel that familiar itch she suddenly remembered she was a living breathing person, here in her old hometown of Derry, and she was there because she had a job to do that couldn’t be avoided. Chris begins to stand, pushing the chair back with the back of her thighs and letting her hand land towards the edge of her desk only to lose her balance as the surface of the wood had been slick with something she hadn’t seen out of the corner of her eye. Her eyes widened, catching herself by gripping the ledge and looking down to examine the mysterious gunk that almost made her take the world's most disastrous fall, and she cringed. 

It was stringy, thick, and it felt like someone had… _spit_ there, or drooled? _Fuck off_. It couldn't have been here right? And hey, why was it so damn warm? 

“Wow, alright Derry you got me” Chris spoke aloud, rubbing her eyelids and seething in slight frustration before letting her hands fall to her sides, shaking her head profusely as if the entire bizarre escape into her sleep paralysis had been a physical burden she needed to shed. She used the end of her sweater to mop up the mysterious drool, and that in turn made her feel dirty enough to climb right into the shower, curiously peering behind the door to see if anymore haunting ghosts of angry and disastrously ugly teenage boys were there waiting to get a sneak peek of her tits. Once she had climbed into the safety of steam and hot water, determining her bathroom safe from all sleep-deprived hallucinations, she took care of getting herself cleaned up. After climbing out of the shower, her attire of the evening had been chosen: an aged blue oyster cult tour shirt her father had gifted her with some several years ago, and her tommy hilfiger boxer briefs, rejoicing in the freedom of being half naked with nowhere to be in the morning, not at least anywhere that meant having to actively hunt down another person. No, Chris could take a moment for herself and breath just enough to remember this trip was half work, and half vacation _— not to mention the safest I’ve ever been in the process of makin’ a story,_ she mused, throwing herself on the bed with a satisfied grunt and pulling her cellphone to her face and exploring the vast options that UberEats was willing to provide. As she had laid there, thinking about the food and the potential bubble bath she might take just for the hell of it all, she remembered something Mike had said about the Neibolt house. The place had been caved in because of a sinkhole, and he had sworn by that to which she had believed initially, but…

“Why didn’t the rest of the property cave in? Just the house?” Chris thought aloud, staring at her ceiling fan go round and round before rolling onto her stomach and flipping to her contacts, listening to the automated click as she filed through each of the names listed in her phone. “Bullshit” She snorted, finally her thumb hovered hesitantly over a name in the drop-down list. 

Mateo Langston. 

Full lips had rolled into a thin line as she stared long and hard at her old schoolmates name. After a moment she flipped a few names farther, and eventually found the person she had been looking for and confirmed the call. It took a few rings, eventually switching the phone onto her shoulder and keeping it there with her cheek as the line continued to drone on. 

_Click!_

  
“Hello?” a voice responded. 

“Hey Armstrong, still leaving calls until the last ring?” Chris snorted, examining the stitching on her bed idly. 

“When it’s this late at night youse lucky I picked the shit up at all. It’s been awhile, you still at Hudson investigatin’ the Lobbyist murder?” 

“Nah, I actually ended up passing that off to another reporter, had to come home. Listen I was wondering if you still had rock climbing gear?” Chris asked. The voice on the other end snorted, an unattractive laugh barreling out of the speaker before the disembodied hiss of what one could only assume was his partner, to keep quiet. 

“You planning on goin’ climbin’ at fuckin’ three in the mornin’?” Armstrong asked. 

“Three? What _—”_

Pulling her face from the phone the girl blinked, leaning forward in shock as she saw the time and thought long and hard about how long she must have been asleep for. When she had gotten home it was only eight, was she really out for seven hours? She stayed silent, lost in thought. 

“Hello?” Armstrong calls out. Chris is quick to shift the phone back onto her shoulder, pushing herself off the bed and going over to her desk in search of her notepad. “No but if you’re still in Bangor I can meet you halfway, I wanted to take a look at a collapsed house that has a sinkhole at the bottom. Its for the job I’m working on, important stuff, and I’d owe you one.” 

“You already owe me one,” Armstrong scoffs. 

“Asking you to park my car a block from an active shooter while you were already a block away in safety doesn’t count, it’s just preemptive measures you tool” Chris rolled her eyes, finding purchase on her notepad and flipping over her notes with Mike while Armstrong struggled to contain his tantrum on the other end of the line. 

“You know I’m a pussy. I’ll meet you halfway and you can buy me lunch at that chinese place. Sound good?” Armstrong yawned. 

“I’ll let you buy me lunch, sounds better?” Chris smirked, turning her head at the sudden rapping at her door. Ah! Speaking of food _._ As the journalist made her way over, opening the door for the clerk to hand her the warm bag, her friend’s words trailed off in the farthest reaches of her mind. 

“All that bravado is gonna get you in a ditch in the dirt, Guzman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't put my finger on it but this chapter was really cool to write for me. We get to learn a bit about Chris here and I feel like thats my main thing, and we get a sneak peek at some of the spooky scary things in her life that happen to her... maybe as a result of her own doing? Or maybe its (maybelline) genetics? The world may never know. Also thank you everyone for always reading and reviews and commentary of any and all kind is always appreciated! The next chapter we're finally getting the big clown bastard himself so I'm really excited to get this show REALLY started. See you in the next chapter!


	5. 5. Bellyachin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris takes a tumble down the world's dirtiest rabbit hole.

After hanging up the phone with all her affairs in order Chris ate her dinner, listened to the recording of the interview a few more times, and finally found refuge in actual undisturbed sleep. The cycle repeated itself when morning came, the rain had dwindled into passing showers and left icy dew over the muted grass in glassy flecks, and after taking a moment to process that she was once again actually back in her old shit town, then she had started the get dressed and head out and on her way. The passing thought of  _ I should’ve drove up here the bus system is shit _ had come and gone, primarily fueled by the sharp cut of wind brushing over her face, but that thought quelled itself when the sight of a yellow cab merged onto her street had caught her eye. She stuck her foot out into the road, a hand extended above her head, and the ballsy move to intersect the vehicle had jarred the driver so much that the tire clutched at the asphalt with a loud screech as it came to an abrupt halt.  _ I had to do it _ , she thought as she climbed into the back and met the older gentleman’s crazed star in the slim rear-view mirror ( _ Otherwise you never would’ve stopped, in a hurry for nothing as always. _ )

The drive to the crowning jewel of Derry’s ethnic dining experience, as well as the only ethnic dining experience ( _ unless you considered margot’s Irish eateries ethnic, most wouldn’t by the way _ ) wasn’t unpleasant, the driver had one of her favorite stations going and the traffic was light, practically non-existent even. Chris had spent thirty or so minutes blowing her breath against the glass of the passenger-door window, and thought of every which way Dean Armstrong could’ve looked after some five years. The two had met long before their first official meeting working on the same team, Dean had been a photographer ( _ a damn good one, steve jobs probably does three rolls in his grave for every shot this guy takes on his canon _ ) and he was brought on by her publisher to work alongside a slew of jobs for them around election season. Dean had the very saddening misfortune to be paired with her, but the two ended up with an article that exposed quite a few politicians, and got them both a commendation or two from the firm. Before that though it was senior year of high school that she had first seen Dean Armstrong, and it was at the last football game of the season. He had played for a school down in Bangor, but more than that he had been cousins with her best friend, Mateo; he had been missing for two years when Dean came up to play. 

“Wonder if he called” Chris muttered quietly, curling long fingers around her chin and traveling up over her mouth. She replayed their reunion at the train station nearly a hundred times the past few days she had been in Derry, and the ghastly look of contentment on his face jarred her to her core. Mateo Langston was probably the most expressive boy she had ever known, and to see it look something akin to her own was a monstrous change even she wasn’t ready for. The nail of her thumb etched over her bottom lip, spiraling down into her thoughts until there was a quick round of loud taps at her window, pulling her from her daze and up at the offender on the other side of the glass. Dean had stood there, slate gray scarf coiled around his neck with a heavy black coat hanging off his slim shoulders, gesturing for his old friend out of the cab likely not because of his excitement to see her but rather he was definitely doing his best to escape the frigid cold.   


“Hey you fucker you gonna sit in the back of a cab all day’a what?” Dean shouted in his thick accent, violently waving his hand before backpedaling to give her space to open the door. 

Chris placed a hand over the center console in front of her, peering at the older gentleman in the driver’s seat. “I haven’t been sitting here too long have I? You didn’t say anything?” She asked. The old man coughed wetly, humming as he regained his breath and gave a weary side glance over to her. He jabbed the meter with his long nail, his joint bulbous from arthritis, and let out another wet cough.    
  
“More money for me” The cabbie chuckled. 

“Damn… well I guess that’s fair huh? Screw me though” Chris scoffs, pulling the cash out and placing it on the console. After a round of hacking like that she was going to do everything in her power to avoid touching this man’s hand if she had to. He had said something under his breath, at first she dismissed it as the banter of a cynical old man who wasted his days driving around in a small town like Derry, but even as she climbed out of the car she couldn’t help but let it wash back over her and steal one final glance to the driver before he left, letting his own withering gaze and irksome smile linger on her longer than she would’ve liked. 

_ Gonna need all the money I can get for today… painting cobblestone on Center Street _ .

Confusion settled over her soft features like a wet blanket, but her companion had done well to break her free of that ball and chain on her mental too. Powerful hands grab onto her shoulders firmly to direct her towards him, and it’s here she gets a good long look at his face. 

Dean was by no means a handsome man, his hair which was always slicked back with the aid of pomade still managed to fall in disheveled strands, and his face always looked a couple years older than what he actually had been. The most prominent feature was likely the length of him, clearing the door frame nearly and standing a good two heads taller than her ( _ though admittedly she wasn’t tall herself, five foot four was barely touching average at her age _ ) and his thin, curved nose which earned him a terrible nickname all throughout highschool as ‘Dean The Mean Vulture Machine’, lame as she would’ve considered it, Chris recalled him griping about it at the drugstore more than once the few times he had come to visit. His crows feet settled on his face when he smiled at her, and the dull sound of his voice in the background had finally been loud and clear. 

“Oh christ she finally fuckin’ went brain dead huh?” Dean snorted, shaking her shoulders a bit more before biting the apple of her cheek, which got an immediate reaction out of her in the form of a hard shove to his chest. His eyes grew big, feigning innocence and sadness, but the journalist most certainly knew better than that. 

“I’m going to tell your wife you’re biting attractive young women in the streets” Chris cocked her jaw, wiping the spit off her face with a look of disgust. 

“Oh puh-lease, you consida’ yaself attractive? My wife ain’t got nothin’ ta’ worry about” Dean said. Chris only frowned at that, her hand finding his bicep in a firm grip before leading him towards the front of the restaurant. The inside of the restaurant was certainly busier than anticipated, but it didn’t hold any bearing on the outting whatsoever. Dean had a tendency to over talk and he was always quick to blame it on nerves that wracked him from years of athletics, anticipating when the ball might get intercepted or that another player would come and sack him when he least expected it. Chris herself was the opposite, and while her old friend was never one to mention it, his cousin did everything possible to remind Chris constantly of her socially untoward state: 

“You’re more  _ quiet _ than  _ quiet _ Guz’”    
  
“Cat got ya tongue? Did it like, swallow the motherfucka’?”    
  
“I’ll bet money science don’t even know what  **YOU GOT** ”    
  
Dean Armstrong had a thousand words to open a play with all the ways Chris’ unperturbed silence went on, and Chris only needed two words to summarize all of the photographer’s tendencies with graceful composure. 

“You’re annoying” Chris sighed.

The man could only laugh, slapping surprisingly soft hands over the top of hers which remained on his bicep before allowing the hostess at the stand to seat them, following after her and allowing every other aspect of the world to melt away into something warmer, and warranted a pleasant mood. Small talk would blossom after the exchange of jabs and weak-willed insults died down, some of that having been mostly one-sided on account of her tall gentleman friend, but the vast majority of the quiet that Chris remained consumed by was mostly in part of thinking back to every instance of strange happenings since she had gotten off the bus and stepped foot into derry. It had been such a long time since Chris had experienced her sleep paralysis, years in fact, and those faces from the past that were so horrifically malformed and withering? Had her grandmother been here she would’ve told her what it was, just as she had her parents when she came to visit the first time. 

“ _ This place is rotten, my dear. I wish your parents would let you come back home. Anytime I see the dirt in the ground there is no brown, or soft beige, all I see is Łizhį.” _

_ Łizhį _ — It was an Apache term for Black.

What Chris could remember of her childhood had seemed to all come back in a flourish now, and despite how this town went on without her, how her family went on, that black in the dirt never went away like some stain that couldn’t be removed even with a drum of bleach unfurled on it. She had liked to think that this town’s grip didn’t affect her like it did  _ most _ people, but maybe she was wearing that stain unbeknownst to her. 

“Sometimes,” Dean sighs loudly, folding his fingers into a tight knit lace while he leans in and stares hard at the woman across from him. “I pretend you’re actually an alien from outta space, and that maybe ya don’t got a belly button, and that's also why ya don’t talk— you’re tryna figure out how’da blend in with normal humans”    
  
Chris blinked, snapping her head from the side to look at her companion with a vaguely remorseful look. It catches the photographer off as much as it does her. 

“Sorry, didn’t sleep the best last night” Chris said, shaking her head and snatching a pair of chopsticks, greedily ripping apart the red wrapping and snapping the wood in half with ease. 

“Yeah neitha did I, some crazy lady woke me up at three in tha’ mornin’ askin’ about climbin’ gear” Dean snorted.

“Yeah that's another reason I didn’t sleep, when I remember sitting at my desk it was seven, when I called you it was three.”    
  
In her lackadaisical drift back into her thoughts the waitress must have put down the pot-stickers they ordered. As Dean struggled with his own pair of chopsticks, rolling his eyes shut at the loud snap of an uneven break, Chris was quick to steal three of the pot-stickers, popping one in her mouth and the other two on the small ceramic plate. With a less than pleased look, the man reaches over with his hands and drags two onto his dish before the other can demolish the appetizer plate.

“You got that Sleep Pertussis shit right?” Dean asked.   
  
“Sleep Paralysis _ — _ ” Chris corrected with a full mouth. 

“Same shit” Dean scoffed.   
  
“Pertussis is  _ whooping _ cough,” The journalist chuckled, wiping her mouth with the cloth napkin and reclining in her chair, hands resting on the top of her thighs while she shut her eyes and fought tirelessly to control her thoughts. Everything felt scattered to her, like that game monkey’s in a barrel, when every kid who ever had any interest in that stupid ass game had to piss and groan when it came time put all the stupid plastic animals back in, it was too much all at once. “I haven’t had it since my mom passed.” 

Dean swallows his pot-sticker, thick brows furrowed tightly. “M’sorry Chris.” 

She shook her head, opening her eyes and sitting up straight, pushing her chair forwards and allowing her elbows to rest against the top of the table. “It's probably this town,” Chris thought aloud, canting her head to the side and scratching behind her ear as she looked over to the table across from where they sat. The voices of the parents rang familiar to her, and after a good long hard stare she recognized them as the mother and father screaming at one another in the train station. Around them were an equally unhappy set of grandparents, and enjoying their birthday cake by grabbing and pulling at icing and pastry alike was the two sets of boys whose cherub faces matched the mess on their hands celebrating their birthday. Two waitresses brought in gifts for the party, one a plate of beautifully stacked moon cakes, the other a bouquet of red balloons. 

“I saw Mateo”    
  
And like that the room felt much, much colder. 

The silence from across the table had a palpable energy all its own, and before she could turn to look at him the older man had leaned forward and locked her in a nasty stare. His fist balled up, and while it was evident that anger was beginning to take over his entire body, racking it and contorting it into a totally different person, Chris felt… apathetic. That alone was something to feel ashamed of, but that didn’t come either. That fist slammed down on the table, making the unhappy grandparents from across turn their attention over briefly before settling back in to the gift opening.

“Chris. If you think this is where I’m suppose’ta laugh _ — _ “ 

“What, because I’m a comedian now? Why am I going to lie about that” Chris interjected, her calm facade washing over the photographer and bringing him back down to a level that was much easier to talk to. Dean flared his nostrils and shook his head.

“That shits… that shits fucking impossible. My aunt buried him, how could he…” he stopped, inhaling a haggard breath and biting the top of his shaking knuckle. 

There' remorse  _ now _ .

“Georgia buried an empty box, Dean. It was the only way she could justify giving up on looking for Mate-“

The table shook with the force of Dean’s palms hitting the table. His hand extended out as did his pointer finger, though the journalist suspected it wasn’t the finger he would’ve liked to use at the moment. The man was inconsolable now, seeing the battle of wanting to believe his friend who wasn’t acting much like it in the moment, and wanting to grab her by the collar of her flannel and wring the emotion buried deep right out of her; Instead he settled for a good verbal ass kicking.

“You and Mateo may have been fuckin’ inseparable like a damn tick on’a dog, but that don’t give ya no RIGHT to talk ‘bout my family like that. Youse think just because you spent your school years chansin’ highs and shitty report cards that makes you understand any part of-of-of the fuckin’ pain that woman went through? That **I** **WENT** through?” Dean’s voice carried through the whole restaurant now, Chris the target of it, and she merely took the onslaught of jabs like it was all she could do. 

“If you saw him, you’re a right bastard for not bringin’ him home, because of all the motherfuckers on this planet  **YOUSE** the only one he gave a shit ‘bout”

Chris closed her eyes and allowed it sink in, Dean’s words, and when she had thought of all the right words to say and how to say them, she would reopen her dark, deep brown eyes and give Dean the eye contact he both wanted and deserved. She leaned in, paused, and laced her fingers together firmly. “I saw him, but he didn’t seem like he was himself. Before I could ask him where he was, where he’s been, if he was okay? He was gone.  _ Like he never existed. _ ” The photographer sucks his teeth, unhappy with the answer but the longer he digested the words, the more plausible it seemed, and the more his blood finally cooled. As he began to sit back down, he noticed something about Chris he hadn’t seen before, something alien in her eyes that transformed her from that ballsy journalist willing to do anything to discover the truth, into someone more human.

Her eyes had watered.

“I don’t know what to say that will make all of your resentment towards me go away, or Georgia’s, or anyone who ever told me I was an unfeeling, emotionless whatever the hell, and honestly I don’t have the time to explain myself to anyone because I won’t dedicate any time to that petty crap, I refuse _ — but I will say this _ ” Chris leaned closer now. “If Mateo cared, at all, he would’ve never left… and he also would’ve called” ( _ Because I’ve been waiting by my phone for that phone call, for days, waiting and waiting and waiting _ ) “But he hasn’t, so all I can do? Is trust at some point he will”    
  
It felt like an eternity had passed by in silence, but eventually Dean had to accept that what Chris had to say was simply right, as she normally had been in his eyes, and settle the fuck down. He had palmed through his hair nervously before the waitress came by with the rest of their food and a wary half-smile. The remainder of their meal went on without animosity, perhaps in part it had to do with the brief glimpse of humanity in the journalist’s eyes even if for a moment. Dean couldn’t remember much about Derry, only that it was a small town in comparison to Bangor, and that what little family he had in Derry had been swallowed up by it just like the rest of them. Chris wasn’t a native ( _ though he _ could _ stand to make a distasteful joke on another occasion _ ) of Derry either, but all the same the town had taken from her just as it took from everyone; Dean never saw the depths of evils a lot of the kids made claim of in his childhood, but there was always some sort of lingering heaviness in their eyes all the same, didn’t matter who you were or where you had come from. A lot of that same weight had been lifted over a couple plates of spring rolls, lazi ji’, and plenty of baozi. Between small talk and shared plates, Chris had given Dean a very haunting, but poetic moment of supreme peace and contentment. The two had both shared an exhausted sigh before the other had perked a thin brow across the table, followed by a wet belch. 

“So tell me about this spelunkin’ endeavor you’ve roped me into” Dean asked. 

“I asked for the equipment not you, I’m perfectly capable of climbing on my own, Armstrong.” Chris snorted, wiping her mouth with her napkin and waving the waitress down for the check. 

“Sure, sure, I know youse was climbin’ with your family and all that but if ya think I’mma let you go on your own with a storm like this goin’ on then, well, ya fuckin’ nuts” Dean smirked, making the other go crosseyed for a brief moment. Her tone dropped a bit, focusing on scribbling on the check which was a nice surprise for the other who was ready to pull singles and coins out to pay for their meal. 

“I was hired to come back and do a hail mary on this place, talk about the collapse of Neibolt on 29 a year back, and how it’s starting to effect the town with all the other decay and destruction and blah, blah blah” She grabbed her aviator jacket, slung it over her shoulders, and came to a full stand to which Dean would shortly follow suit and join her towards the front door. “Dunno who sent the letter, all I know is I’m starting to weird myself out with how much I wanna see what's in that house”  _ Some part of me always did want to know, wasn’t that cistern just a few paces away _ ? She thought to herself, biting the tip of her thumb before pushing her way out the front door.    
  
“ _ Neibolt _ ? The fuckin’ crackhead house? The one those uh….whatever the fuck club said had a evil clown livin’ in it? Youse goin’ in by  **yourself** ? Yeah ya’ nuts.  _ Not gonna happen _ .” Dean huffed, wincing at the sudden embrace of cold and the mist of the rain to come before guiding them both to his car where he’d begin the drive from old pasture road and on the other side of town towards Neibolt. Time must have eluded them both, because as they made their journey from one end of Derry to the other, the sky had painted itself those same warm hues of orange and red like the evening she and Mateo spent the night in the baseball stadium bleachers. There wasn’t any gruesome image of Patrick Hocksetter or jeering laughter from knuckleheaded idiots to ruin it, but even despite that fact there had been something about the sunset that almost felt misplaced in a way. Diving into the poetic aspects of how the sky changed colors wasn’t her thing, but Chris was always a bit of an empath ironically enough, and she could feel things in ways others couldn’t. Everything about today had felt like some sort of very intense fever dream, the rest of the events happening had almost felt natural, and she had supposed that was simply apart of being a native to this place. People got used to obscene and terrible things happening out of the blue and learned to accept it was simply how it was living there. By the time they had made it out to the old remains of the house at the end of Kansas Street, the sky and everything else about this day seemed trivial in the shadow of it. 

Even the barely-there remnants of the house felt as evil as they day it stood from foundation to shingle with not a single scratch. 

As the car rolled to a stop and was put in park, Dean stepped out of his vehicle and took a long look over towards the remains of the decrepit home with a dramatic shudder. A soft ‘nope’ was muttered under his breath as he turned towards the trunk of his SUV and started unpacking the climbing gear. Chris hadn’t climbed out of the car yet, only sat in the passenger seat and stared at the swaying posts that once held up the porch; the memory alone was hypnotizing, seeing what was left physically had her rapt and undivided attention. The longer she looked ahead, the more she felt the tug of needing to push forward, how she could hear the noises of a time lost decades into the past resurfacing like she was there in the moment:    
  
Leaves breaking underneath dirty sneakers....  _ Crunch _ ,  _ crunch _ ,  _ crunch _ .

“ _ Nani, what do you mean when you say we share the same soul? _ ” Chris shuts her eyes, seeing the wrinkles of her grandmother’s faces clear as day; she’s tired, she’d old, but she always felt like she was eternal.

A heavy exhale, a plume of smoke, the stale smell of stagnant water and cigarette smoke _ — pheeew. _

_ “It is because your soul dedicates itself to another; though who is uncertain… until you meet again.” Ela had set her hand against the window. The sun is setting, the heat of the sun washes over the surface of the glass; Chris feels her hand overlap the softness of her grandmother’s, and for a moment their heart beats are the same.  _ **_Thump_ ** _ ,  _ **_Thump_ ** _ ,  _ **_Thump_ ** _!  _

“ _ Again? _ ” Chris asks aloud, lost in the onslaught of the memory. The smoke is stronger now, she can taste the nicotine on her tongue, followed by… iron, blood? No…  _ nickel _ , the taste of the swiss army knife blade. Her throat closes, and then the smell of herbs and mint flooded her senses _ — the cream her grandmother made for her eyes. Eyes… that  _ **clown** _. Did she know that clown? What was its name? Her tongue felt heavy.  _

_ “You have already met before, you will meet again” Ela took one final breath. The hand beneath her own was gone, the glass no longer warmed by the sun, instead there was nothing but red filling her vision and water threatening to spill over the window pane.  _

**THUMP** ,  **THUMP** ,  **THUMP** !

“ _ Chrysanthemum _ ” Dean barks. He’s tapping the glass, staring warily at the woman sitting in the seat like a dazed idiot. Chris stares for a solid minute or so, hooks her fingers into the door handle, and steps out of the car. More awkward silence followed, but at least this time the journalist brought it to an end herself. 

“Did you use my name?” Chris asked, face twisted in discomfort. 

“Yeah ya fuckin’ hippie, youse weren’t responding to the other nicknames, or my lovin’ additions of  _ shithead _ , and  _ fuckface _ ” He rested the harness on her shoulder, watching in amusement as the weight made her falter in her step before continuing on ahead. “I set up a stable point for you to hook yourself to, now it’s just a manner of you rememberin’ how to do the rest” 

There’s a brief smirk that plays on her lips, and the single lingering thought that this would be the last bit of evidence she needed before she closed the book on Derry for good and went back up north to disappear from this town, and it’s inky black influence forever more. Setting up the harness around her waist was easy enough, like clockwork actually, and she had dressed for the occasion so there was little discomfort to be had as she shifted her weight in her hiking boots and acclimated to the feeling of straps around her thighs and stomach. My dad would be proud, she mused, and then started to let the rope in her hands go taut while she leaned all her weight over the edge of the sinkhole. 

As she looked downwards, the darkness of the drop seemed endless enough to warrant a slight hint of wonderment out of the journalist. Often times the light from the surface bounces enough residual light to illuminate even dark caverns until you get to the core of those places, but it felt like all that remained at the bottom was more tenebrous pits waiting to swallow her up. Dean’s apprehension was palpable, and it didn’t help she could hear his exasperated sighs repeating over and over again in the backdrop, but even so she made the push forward to bounce off the ledge and make the first leap down into the hole that once served as the foundation for the root of all Derry’s evil _ — or so the story was told.  _ Dean called out to her, words of caution she would never hear proper as her descent downward was one made with haste. It was one thing to embark down into an uncharted ditch with god knows what amount of sewage and debris, it was another to think about how many times Mike had referred to this plot of land as a sinkhole and know that whatever her only support system had been attached to could dissolve into nothingness in the blink of an eye. Time was of the essence, and Chris made no plans to waste a single second of it. 

Seconds however, turned to minutes, and minutes to nearly half an hour when her feet still didn’t find purchase on the ground. The muscles in her arms burned, palms gripping the rope as her breath shook and her legs dug into the soft earth for stability while her hands pulled out the flashlight tucked into her side satchel. With a couple of go’s clumsily made at first, eventually her attempts to produce light succeed and the area around her is illuminated into… what looks like the remains of basement stairs and lots of old worn cobblestone. 

“Mike said this place used to be the wellhouse, but  _ damn _ , does a well really go this far down?” She peered toward the bottom, squinting at what she could’ve sworn were the pinprick glowing of something leagues down towards the end of her descent, and quickly shook her rampant imagination off. Nothing could live down here, in this cold ass ditch full of dark, moldy, rotting dirt and grime. If anything _ could  _ live down here, then it certainly wasn’t anything of this earth that much was certain. Maybe an intensely mutated… Opossum. Lips flapped in a boorish exhale before replacing the vacancy in her mouth with the flashlight firmly clamped between her teeth, and continued her descent into the bottom of Neibolt and 29. 

This place always had its own aura, a personality and history that was as real as any person that you could pass in the street in your everyday life. Growing up close to Kansas meant that if you were smart you would stay clear of the last three houses, lest you incur the wrath of a great many rumored crackheads and lepers lurking somewhere in the bottom portion of the stairs in the decaying house, or lose you life to the unknown by taking a dare from your friends to just give a simple knock on the door.  _ Come to think of it _ , Chris thought, looking down at a ledge of broken cement and planting her legs firmly against it to gather her bearings. “Twis pwace was alwaws rotting away for the wongest” Chris rumble, words muffled around the metal of the flashlight, saliva beginning to curve around the handle and drip onto the top of her flannel before her attention had been abruptly stolen by the low, unmistakable sound of a voice _ — _

“ _ Chris, I told you to stay the hell away _ ” 

“Who the fuck” Chris spat back, jerking to the side as the adrenaline in her body begged her to descend faster, but doing so meant risking the entire integrity of her equipment and being stranded several leagues underground in a godforsaken sinklehole. Still… that didn’t explain the sudden voice, nor the fact that she knew exactly who it was talking to her. It was impossible to forget his voice, his face clear as day in her minds eyes: 

_Mateo_.

“You know what? I need to get to the bottom right now” Chris shook her head, beginning to adjust her body before the feeling of the line above being pulled taught snapped her head upwards. 

“ _ I didn’t want this for you, Maturin said you needed to come back, but not me _ ” 

“Hey!” Chris shouted. 

Her heart began to race double time, and while her back had been touching the ledge to offer balance, the violent tugging of the line suddenly became slack. There’s an abrupt yell that leaves her throat as gravity begins to send her into a plummet as her weight tips her off the ledge entirely and down into the inky black. The faint outline of broken furniture and soil goes from tangible shapes to blurred lines, hands had grasped out to grab hold of anything to stop her fall but to no avail. Despite the speed at which she fell, time felt like it had begun to creep to a halt as her thoughts were playing a game of catch up with her. It made no sense to be here, back in this town where no good memories existed, where she had met and lost the one true friend she ever had whose voice has plagued her since she left the train station in Connecticut, and where this house that should by no means still exist over this endless gaping sinkhole stood despite all else. None of these things had made sense to Chris, and the most worrisome of all was that she somehow found herself caring even as her body was finally enveloped by the bottom, murky and rancid water consuming her form and dragging her into the rush of a current she easily fell victim to. 

The impact was devastatingly painful, and while the adrenaline coursing through her veins had been keeping her from experiencing the brunt of an oncoming concussion, there was no shielding her from the effects of drowning. It’s right then when her lungs are suddenly full of water and she’s regaining enough consciousness and strength to pull herself onto the surface that she manages to let out a yell, no fear to form it but rather…  _ anger _ . Anger and confusion at this pull at her body that rolled her and tried desperately to drown her until she had given up fighting it all together and allowed it to carry her down steep drops and bending curves until the journalists form was spat up onto a hard obsidian surface and left for either a cruel, unforgiving god to the last breath from her chest… or a few mutant Opossums came and tended to the meat on her bones.

Her legs had felt heavy, her head had been swimming still from the violent spirals, but she refused to fall victim to the black. Her grandmother's voice was gentle, worn by age but full of wisdom; it’s that very same voice that guided her back everytime without fail.

“ _ Come on little one, get up. You’ll bleed out and drown if you don’t raise that fathead _ ” Ela chuckled, her laughter becoming one with the sloshing water licking at her hiking boots.

A strangled cry of pain, fading into a hiss. No dice.

“ _ You don’t want your mother to come out here do you? With all of that smoke pouring out of her face like an angry bull _ ” Ela continues, though her voice which once meshed peacefully with the water crashing over the strange earth she had washed upon, no longer seemed in sync. The voice sounded garbled, like it had been taking on water, drowning just as she had. “ _ Get up, little one. Get up or die _ ”

_ Slap _ ! Her hand planted flat on the ground, gritting her teeth until she tasted iron as she forced herself up onto her knee, only for the disorientation to drop her body onto all fours. The room had to have been spinning with the force that she felt being pushed onto her back, and what little of her surroundings she was able to make out. Everything was destroyed, furniture, earth, walls, anything that once had a tangible physical form had been reduced to broken, battered forms that all surrounded the center of this sinkhole like a glaring exclamation point. The red that loomed high above the sky to paint the sunset sank down like blood in the water, reaching every inch of the area she was in until it was all she could see. What had happened? How did she get here? 

“What the fuaughck!” Chris shouted. Then shortly after, the pressure pushing down on her was great enough to force her to vomit. Fingernails scraped at the ground until charcoal stained the nail bed, unable to get herself to stop vomiting and simply riding out the taste of Derry river water and Chinese on the back of her throat like a god awful stain. Her body jolted with ever upheaval, and when she felt she had no more to give the obsidian crater she laid in she would heaven again, and again, and again. A cold chill possessed her body, arching her back and letting a sickened gag escape her throat while she fought desperately for air and gazed upward through the dirtied crack of her glasses towards nowhere in particular.

Only… 

The shrill sound of an owl crowing rang in her ears, but what paralyzed the journalist above all else was a pair of haunting golden eyes a hairs reach away, the warmth of the invisible creatures breath washing over her shivering body. As the creature drew closer, the thoughts that ran rampant through her head brought time down to a slow enough halt that she could process a thousand things all at once. How could she have heard Mateo’s voice if he wasn’t in Derry, or better yet how could he have been alive? How could he have survived being gone fifteen years without a trace with nothing but a pair of bloody boots and a half smoked roach as his namesake. What could’ve stared at her in the bathroom, taking on the shape of that boy from her childhood whose goal up until his unseemly demise was to remind her what it felt like to be violated with a single, lingering gaze that felt as thick and warm as the spit on her desk, and the heat from the storm drain. What about those fucking gold eyes which didn’t exist in the human genetic pool? What about the owls and the memories? What about those  _ fucking eyes _ ? A choked noise leaves her body in the form of a strangled scream. Pain had coursed through her body in white hot waves, hitting her like lightning, and suddenly those eyes were no more.

There is a sudden shrill cry into the dark hole below, something ancient and hungry clawing its way into existence. The bile that refused to stop had been up to her wrists now, and upon braving a glance downwards is when the woman realized that what was coming out of her body was black like tar and hot like hell, shifting and forming violently before her while the storm up above rages on and finds its way down, down, down. Her eyes burned, what would have been tears had also birthed the thick black fluid that leaked from her face effortlessly and caused so much agony on her that she couldn’t fathom what was happening, what anything that happened from leaving that train station meant or how it came to be. It was at the bottom of the Neibolt house, drowning in her questions of why and thousands of gallons of rancid, evil Derry, that Chris realized she made a mistake coming back here, and thinking she would ever get the answer to any of those questions. The pressure on her body heightens, contorting the woman until the pain of being forced upwards to let the violent possession of her person breaks her into submission and releases a voice alongside a single brilliant light that begins to climb high above, ascending over her and illuminating all around her as the fluids creaks and groans and becomes something more than fluid… but something whole.

“Worthless creature, you carry the stink of those before you _ — _ yes, yes! I feel the warmth of life in my breast, and you foolish little things are beholden to me!” The voice booms and threatens to blow her eardrums out, but all the woman could do was look on, hypnotized by the light that dimmed and shone before her in quickening bursts of life. “Hand holding to banish a god, Indian burns to smite Chaos and all its endless expanse over nature and law! Naughty, vile, and despicable. I am death, bringer of woe and being of unyielding paralytic fear! Look upon me child, for it is the last you will know peace, know sanity! Allow me to show you what it means to dine upon the life of a star and watch it fade to the cosmos” 

The lights began to settle, the sound of labored breathing and bone cracking do little to perturb the woman as she remains unwavering in her devotion to looking forward. Normal tears stained blackened spot covered cheeks, and the flood of adrenaline has cleared from her body and allowed the pain of broken bones to settle in her form. The reconstruction of a living breathing thing before her very eyes was hard to put to words, and yet as the sinew of muscle and the sloppy wet bundle of arteries began to give birth to something that had breathed, to fingers outstretched into silk gloves and teeth of an endless amount concealed behind ruby painted lips made its way to view, a single word had came to mind in silent whispers in the deafening howl of the being she remembered clear as day that rainy day in fall on her way back home through the Barrens.

“Pennywise” 

A wild laugh had burst from it’s newly formed lungs, spittle flying out as it’s maw which had been open and vast, full to the brim with needle-like teeth in rows, and formed into two childish pouty lips. The laugh began to turn into something else, muted guttural growls and ghoulishly low hums before the face of the creature had been illuminated by a single strike of lightning. Brilliant golden eyes outlined in a single bloodied ring of red shine bright enough to blind her looking into them, despite the ever present glow of his body which had come and gone like a dying candle. Joints cracked viciously, and though despite it’s violent reanimation the thing before her had taken joy in it, gritting through the pain to watch as his body twitched and jolted abnormally, and snapped his claw out to grab the bile covered face of the woman in a tight crushing grip. 

“Ack-” Chris heaved, feeling the hot bile pour from her lips in hot, steaming, tar like streams. The creature was not opposed to this though, it drew the woman’s face so close that the carrion stench lingering on his breath had clouded her vision and made her weak to it’s tightening hold. A thumb pressed into the apple of her cheek, dirtied nail piercing soft flesh and delighting the being into a fit of giggles, shaking its head before snapping its jaws playfully at the woman.

“Oh little red, little child of the red dunes, your lumpy little eyes are no more! Why could I count them on my fingers and toes and let them pop! Pop! Pop!” Pennywise sniffed the air, seeking the sample the delightful tinge of fear he was so accustomed to only...be greeted with the sour smell of defiance. It’s lower eyelid twitches, the corner of it’s upper lip snarling back before an eerie cheshire’s grin took over it’s features.  _ No matter _ .

“You won’t die today, no, noooo… I do not want the weeds to sample your tasty flesh no longer bumpy and diseased. I want you to take a nap, right in your friend ol’ Pennywise’s place, and I want you to steep in that agony a  _ liiiiiiiii _ ~tle while longer! I’ll be back for you,” It huffed, shoving the woman into the obsidian and coming to a complete stand, it’s height impressive even for human standards, and letting out one final haunting chuckle before it’s face fell still and bore holes into the journalist’s soul. 

Chris opened her mouth to speak, the rushing waters choking her speech into nothing more than a fit of coughs. Her body racked with pain, she forced herself to try and remain upright, to try and wake up, but this…. This fucking thing, this fucking clown, this part of Derry that felt more real than all the abuse and solemn memories felt like it tied an anchor around her waist and let her sink to the bottom. It may not have rended her flesh with razor sharp teeth, but the mere energy it had was consuming her very being, her spirit and her ability to get the fuck up. How? _ How was any of this real _ ? 

“You're...n..not real” Chris choked.

The being merely smiled, it’s lumbering form there one moment and gone the next, sick with joy at its long awaited breaths of life from former death, soon the Eater of Worlds had disappeared in the raging violence of the storm. It’s voice spoke out, clear as day, reaching the ears of the journalist moments before she succumbed to the black, but they had seemed so distant. Sleep had taken her once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So it's definitely been awhile huh? This chapter eluded me for what feels like the longest if I'm being honest. It provided a huge hurdle for me, but now that the big man himself is back in the picture we can get on with the slowburn folks. I look forward to getting this fic back on track, and reviews and commentary are as always, hella appreciated <3


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